



























































































































































































































































































































































Class P ' 2 - _ 

Bonk f\ Q \Z(g 
Copyright N'.’_^ v _Ap_ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

Copy 2- 



























































MISS BRACEGIRDLE 
AND OTHERS 


Books by Stacy Aumonier 


Friends and Other Stories 

Heartbeat 

Just Outside 

Miss Bracegirdle and Others 
Olga Bardel 
One After Another 
Querrils 

The Golden Windmill and 
Other Stories 

















r • 


COPYRIGHT, I9l6, 1921, 1922, I 923 , BY 
STACY AUMONIER 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED 8TATES 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 


C1A759663'- 

KO'l 3 1323 v 



/ V\ t) ^ 





ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


Thanks are due to The Pictorial Review Company> 
The Century Company , and The Curtis Publishing 
Company, for permission to reprint the stories in 
this volume. 


CONTENTS 


Miss Bracegirdle Does Her Duty 
Where Was Wych Street? . 

The Octave of Jealousy . 

The Funny Man's Day . 

The Beautiful, Merciless Lady 
The Accident of Crime . 

“Old Fags". 

The Angel of Accomplishment . 

The Match . 

Mrs. Beelbrow’s Lions . 

A Man of Letters .... 

“Face" . 

The Brown Wallet .... 


LGff . 

I 


• • 27 


• • 52 


. . 82 

T 

. . 108 

A ' 

. 128 


. . 158 


. . 194 


. 221 

G> 

00 

X 

. . 251 


. . 269 

r\ 

. . 304 
































MISS BRACEGIRDLE 
AND OTHERS 







r 






v 







































































Miss Bracegirdle and Others 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 


T HIS is the room, madame.” 

“Ah, thank you . . . thank you.” 

“Does it appear satisfactory to madame?” 
“Oh, yes, thank you . . . quite.” 

“Does madame require anything further?” 

“Er—if not too late, may I have a hot bath?” 

“ Parfaitement, madame. The bathroom is at the 
end of the passage on the left. I will go and prepare 
it for madame.” 

“There is one thing more. ... I have had 
a very long journey. I am very tired. Will you 
please see that I am not disturbed in the morning 
until I ring.” 

“Certainly, madame.” 

Millicent Bracegirdle was speaking the truth—she 
was tired. In the sleepy cathedral town of Easing- 
stoke, from which she came, it was customary for 
everyone to speak the truth. It was customary, 
moreover, for everyone to lead simple, self-denying 
lives—to give up their time to good works and ele¬ 
vating thoughts. One had only to glance at little 
Miss Bracegirdle to see that in her was epitomized 


2 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

all the virtues and ideals of Easingstoke. Indeed, it 
was the pursuit of duty which had brought her to the 
Hotel de l’Oest at Bordeaux on this summer’s night. 
She had travelled from Easingstoke to London, then 
without a break to Dover, crossed that horrid stretch 
of sea to Calais, entrained for Paris, where she of 
necessity had to spend four hours—a terrifying 
experience—and then had come on to Bordeaux, 
arriving at midnight. The reason of this journey 
being that some one had to come to Bordeaux to 
meet her young sister-in-law, who was arriving the 
next day from South America. The sister-in-law 
was married to a missionary in Paraguay, but the 
climate not agreeing with her, she was returning to 
England. Her dear brother, the dean, would have 
come himself, but the claims on his time were so 
extensive, the parishioners would miss him so . . 

it was clearly Millicent’s duty to go. 

She had never been out of England before, and she 
had a horror of travel, and an ingrained distrust of 
foreigners. She spoke a little French—sufficient for 
the purposes of travel and for obtaining any modest 
necessities, but not sufficient for carrying on any kind 
of conversation. She did not deplore this latter fact, 
for she was of opinion that French people were not the 
kind of people that one would naturally want to have 
conversation with; broadly speaking, they were not 
quite “nice,” in spite of their ingratiating manners. 

The dear dean had given her endless advice, warn¬ 
ing her earnestly not to enter into conversation with 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 3 

strangers, to obtain all information from the police, 
railway officials—in fact, any one in an official uni¬ 
form. He deeply regretted to say that he was afraid 
that France was not a country for a woman to travel 
about in alone. There were loose, bad people about, 
always on the lookout. ... He really thought 
perhaps he ought not to let her go. It was only by 
the utmost persuasion, in which she rather exagger¬ 
ated her knowledge of the French language and 
character, her courage, and indifference to discomfort, 
that she managed to carry the day. 

She unpacked her valise, placed her things about 
the room, tried to thrust back the little stabs of 
homesickness as she visualized her darling room at 
the deanery. How strange and hard and unfriendly 
seemed these foreign hotel bedrooms—heavy and 
depressing, no chintz and lavender and photographs 
of . . . all the dear family, the dean, the 

nephews and nieces, the interior of the cathedral 
during harvest festival, no samplers and needlework 
or coloured reproductions of the paintings by Marcus 
Stone. Oh dear, how foolish she was! What did she / 
expect ? 

She disrobed and donned a dressing-gown; then, 
armed with a sponge-bag and towel, she crept timidly 
down the passage to the bathroom, after closing her 
bedroom door and turning out the light. The gay 
bathroom cheered her. She wallowed luxuriously 
in the hot water, regarding her slim legs with quiet 
satisfaction. And for the first time since leaving 


4 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


home there came to her a pleasant moment—a sense 
of enjoyment in her adventure. After all, it was 
rather an adventure, and her life had been peculiarly 
devoid of it. What queer lives some people must 
live, travelling about, having experiences! How old 
was she? Not really old—not by any means. Forty- 
two? Forty-three? She had shut herself up so. 
She hardly ever regarded the potentialities of age. 
As the world went, she was a well-preserved woman 
for her age. A life of self-abnegation, simple living, 
healthy walking and fresh air, had kept her younger 
than these hurrying, pampered city people. 

Love? yes, once when she was a young girl . 
he was a schoolmaster, a most estimable kind gentle¬ 
man. They were never engaged—not actually, but 
it was a kind of understood thing. For three years 
it went on, this pleasant understanding and friend¬ 
ship. He was so gentle, so distinguished and con¬ 
siderate. She would have been happy to have 
continued in this strain for ever. But there was 
something lacking. Stephen had curious restless 
lapses. From the physical aspect of marriage 
she shrunk—yea, even with Stephen, who was 
gentleness and kindness itself. And then one day 
. . . one day he went away—vanished, and 

never returned. They told her he had married one 
of the country girls—a girl who used to work in Mrs. 
Forbes’s dairy—not a very nice girl, she feared, one of 
these fast, pretty, foolish women. Heigho! well, 
she had lived that down, destructive as the blow 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY $ 

appeared at the time. One lives everything down in 
time. There is always work, living for others, faith, 
duty. ... At the same time she could sympa¬ 
thize with people who found satisfaction in unusual 
experiences. 

There would be lots to tell the dear dean when she 
wrote to him on the morrow—nearly losing her 
spectacles on the restaurant car; the amusing re¬ 
marks of an American child on the train to Paris; the 
curious food everywhere, nothing simple and plain; 
the two English ladies at the hotel in Paris who told 
her about the death of their uncle—the poor man 
being taken ill on Friday and dying on Sunday 
afternoon, just before tea-time; the kindness of the 
hotel proprietor who had sat up for her; the prettiness 
of the chambermaid. Oh, yes, everyone was really 
very kind. The French people, after all, were very 
nice. She had seen nothing—nothing but was quite 
nice and decorous. There would be lots to tell the 
dean to-morrow. 

Her body glowed with the friction of the towel. 
She again donned her night attire and her thick, 
woollen dressing-gown. She tidied up the bathroom 
carefully in exactly the same way she was accustomed 
to do at home, then once more gripping her sponge- 
bag and towel, and turning out the light, she crept 
down the passage to her room. Entering the room 
she switched on the light and shut the door quickly. 
Then one of those ridiculous things happened—just 
the kind of thing you would expect to happen in a 


6 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

foreign hotel. The handle of the door came off in her 
hand. 

She ejaculated a quiet “ Bother!” and sought to 
replace it with one hand, the other being occupied 
with the towel and sponge-bag. In doing this she 
behaved foolishly, for thrusting the knob carelessly 
against the steel pin—without properly securing it— 
she only succeeded in pushing the pin farther into 
the door and the knob was not adjusted. She 
uttered another little “Bother” and put her sponge- 
bag and towel down on the floor. She then tried to 
recover the pin with her left hand but it had gone in 
too far. 

“How very foolish!’ she thought, “I shall have to 
ring for the chambermaid—and perhaps the poor girl 
has gone to bed.” 

She turned and faced the room, and suddenly 
the awful horror was upon her. There was a man 
asleep in her bed ! 

The sight of that swarthy face on the pillow, with 
its black tousled hair and heavy moustache, pro¬ 
duced in her the most terrible moment of her life. 
Her heart nearly stopped. For some seconds she 
could neither think nor scream, and her first thought 
was: “I mustn’t scream!” 

She stood there like one paralyzed, staring at the 
man’s head and the great curved hunch of his body 
under the clothes. When she began to think she 
thought very quickly, and all her thoughts worked 
together. The first vivid realization was that it 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 7 

wasn’t the man’s fault; it was her fault. She was in 
the wrong room. It was the Man’s room. The rooms 
were identical, but there were all his things about, his 
clothes thrown carelessly over chairs, his collar and 
tie on the wardrobe, his great heavy boots and the 
strange yellow trunk. She must get out somehow, 
anyhow. 

She clutched once more at the door, feverishly 
driving her finger-nails into the hole where the 
elusive pin had vanished. She tried to force her 
fingers in the crack and open the door that way, but 
it was of no avail. She was to all intents and pur¬ 
poses locked in—locked in a bedroom in a strange 
hotel alone with a man ... a foreigner . . . 

a Frenchman! She must think. She must 
think. . . . She switched off the light. If the 

light was off* he might not wake up. It might give 
her time to think how to act. It was surprising that 
he had not awakened. If he did wake up what would 
he do? How could she explain herself? He wouldn’t 
believe her. No one would believe her. In an 
English hotel it would be difficult enough, but here 
where she wasn’t known, where they were all foreign¬ 
ers and consequently antagonistic . . . merciful 

heavens! 

She must get out. Should she wake the man? 
No, she couldn’t do that. He might murder her. 
He might. . . . Oh, it was too awful to contem¬ 

plate! Should she scream? ring for the chamber¬ 
maid? But no, it would be the same thing. People 


8 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


would come rushing. They would find her there 
in the strange man’s bedroom after midnight—she, 
Millicent Bracegirdle, sister of the Dean of Easing- 
stoke! Easingstoke! 

Visions of Easingstoke flashed through her alarmed 
mind. Visions of the news arriving, women whisper¬ 
ing around tea-tables: “Have you heard, my dear? 
. . . Really no one would have imagined! Her 

poor brother! He will of course have to resign, you 
know, my dear. Have a little more cream, my love.” 

Would they put her in prison ? She might be in the 
room for the purpose of stealing or . . . She 

might be in the room for the purpose of breaking 
every one of the ten commandments. There was no 
explaining it away. She was a ruined woman, sud¬ 
denly and irretrievably, unless she could open the 
door. The chimney? Should she climb up the 
chimney? But where would that lead to? And 
then she visualized the man pulling her down by her 
legs when she was already smothered in soot. Any 
moment he might wake up. . . . 

She thought she heard the chambermaid going 
along the passage. If she had wanted to scream, she 
ought to have screamed before. The maid would 
know she had left the bathroom some minutes ago. 
Was she going to her room? Suddenly she re¬ 
membered that she had told the chambermaid that 
she was not to be disturbed until she rang the next 
morning. That was something. Nobody would be 
going to her room to find out that she was not there. 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 9 

An abrupt and desperate plan formed in her mind. 
It was already getting on for one o’clock. The man 
was probably a quite harmless commercial traveller 
or business man. He would probably get up about 
seven or eight o’clock, dress quickly and go out. She 
would hide under his bed until he went. Only a 
matter of a few hours. Men don’t look under their 
beds, although she made a religious practice of doing 
so herself. When he went he would be sure to open 
the door all right. The handle would be lying on 
the floor as though it had dropped off in the night. 
He would probably ring for the chambermaid or 
open it with a penknife. Men were so clever at those 
things. When he had gone she would creep out and 
steal back to her room, and then there would be no 
necessity to give any explanation to any one. But 
heavens! What an experience! Once under the 
white frill of that bed she would be safe till the morn¬ 
ing. In daylight nothing seemed so terrifying. 

With feline precaution she went down on her hands 
and knees and crept toward the bed. What a lucky 
thing there was that broad white frill! She lifted 
it at the foot of the bed and crept under. There was 
just sufficient depth to take her slim body. The 
floor was fortunately carpeted all over, but it seemed 
very close and dusty. Suppose she coughed or 
sneezed! Anything might happen. Of course. . . 
it would be much more difficult to explain her 
presence under the bed than to explain her pres¬ 
ence just inside the door. She held her breath in 


IO 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


suspense. No sound came from above, but under 
this frill it was difficult to hear anything. It was 
almost more nerve-racking than hearing every¬ 
thing . . . listening for signs and portents. 

This temporary escape in any case would give her 
time to regard the predicament detachedly. Up 
to the present she had not been able to visualize the 
full significance of her action. She had in truth 
lost her head. She had been like a wild animal, 
consumed with the sole idea of escape ... a 
mouse or a cat would do this kind of thing—take 
cover and lie low. If only it hadn’t all happened 
abroad! She tried to frame sentences of explanation 
in French, but French escaped her. And then— 
they talked so rapidly, these people. They didn’t 
listen. The situation was intolerable. Would she 
be able to endure a night of it? 

At present she was not altogether uncomfortable, 
only stuffy and . . . very, very frightened. 
But she had to face six or seven or eight hours of 
it—perhaps even then discovery in the end! The 
minutes flashed by as she turned the matter over 
and over in her head. There was no solution. She 
began to wish she had screamed or awakened the 
man. She saw now that that would have been the 
wisest and most politic thing to do; but she had 
allowed ten minutes or a quarter of an hour to elapse 
from the moment when the chambermaid would 
know that she had left the bathroom. They would 
want an explanation of what she had been doing in 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY n 

the man’s bedroom all that time. Why hadn’t she 
screamed before? 

She lifted the frill an inch or two and listened. 
She thought she heard the man breathing but she 
couldn’t be sure. In any case it gave her more air. 
She became a little bolder, and thrust her face partly 
through the frill so that she could breathe freely. 
She tried to steady her nerves by concentrating on 
the fact that—well, there it was. She had done it. 
She must make the best of it. Perhaps it would be 
all right after all. 

“Of course I shan’t sleep,” she kept on thinking, 
“I shan’t be able to. In any case it will be safer not 
to sleep. I must be on the watch.” 

She set her teeth and waited grimly. Now that 
she had made up her mind to see the thing through 
in this manner she felt a little calmer. She almost 
smiled as she reflected that there would certainly be 
something to tell the dear Dean when she wrote to 
him to-morrow. How would he take it ? Of course 
he would believe it—he had never doubted a single 
word that she had uttered in her life, but the story 
would sound so . . . preposterous. In Easing- 

stoke it would be almost impossible to envisage 
such an experience. She, Millicent Bracegirdle, 
spending a night under a strange man’s bed in a 
foreign hotel! What would those women think? 
Fanny Shields and that garrulous old Mrs. Rus- 
bridger? Perhaps . . . yes, perhaps it would 

be advisable to tell the dear Dean to let the story go 


12 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

no further. One could hardly expect Mrs. Rush- 
bridger to . . . not make implications . . . 

exaggerate. 

Oh dear! What were they all doing now? They 
would all be asleep, everyone in Easingstoke. Her 
dear brother always retired at ten-fifteen. He 
would be sleeping calmly and placidly, the sleep of 
the just . . . breathing the clear sweet air of 

Sussex, not this—Oh, it was stuffy! She felt a great 
desire to cough. She mustn't do that. Yes, at 
nine-thirty all the servants summoned to the library— 
a short service—never more than fifteen minutes, 
her brother didn't believe in a great deal of ritual— 
then at ten o’clock cocoa for everyone. At ten- 
fifteen bed for everyone. The dear sweet bedroom 
with the narrow white bed, by the side of which she 
had knelt every night as long as she could remember 
—even in her dear mother's day—and said her 
prayers. 

Prayers! Yes, that was a curious thing. This 
was the first night in her life's experience that she had 
not said her prayers on retiring. The situation was 
certainly very peculiar . . . exceptional, one 

might call it. God would understand and forgive 
such a lapse. And yet after all, why . . . what 

was to prevent her saying her prayers? Of course 
she couldn't kneel in the proper devotional attitude, 
that would be a physical impossibility, nevertheless, 
perhaps her prayers might be just as efficacious . . . 
if they came from the heart. So little Miss Brace- 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 13 

girdle curved her body and placed her hands in a 
devout attitude in front of her face and quite in- 
audibly murmured her prayers under the strange 
man’s bed. 

“Our Father which art in heaven; hallowed be 
Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on 
earth as it is done in heaven; Give us this day our 
daily bread and forgive us our trespasses. . . 

Trespasses! Yes, surely she was trespassing on 
this occasion, but God would understand. She had 
not wanted to trespass. She was an unwitting 
sinner. Without uttering a sound she went through 
her usual prayers in her heart. At the end she 
added fervently: 

“Please God protect me from the dangers and 
perils of this night.” 

Then she lay silent and inert, strangely soothed 
by the effort of praying. “After all,” she thought,, 
“it isn’t the attitude which matters—it is that which 
occurs deep down in us.” 

For the first time she began to meditate—almost 
to question—church forms and dogma. If an atti¬ 
tude was not indispensable why—a building, a ritual, 
a church at all? Of course her dear brother couldn’t 
be wrong, the church was so old, so very old, its root 
deep buried in the story of human life, it was only 
that . . . well, outward forms could be mis¬ 

leading. Her own present position for instance. In 
the eyes of the world she had, by one silly careless 
little action, convicted herself of being the breaker 


i 4 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

of every single one of the ten commandments. 

She tried to think of one of which she could not be 
accused. But no—even to dishonouring her father 
and mother, bearing false witness, stealing, coveting 
her neighbour’s . . . husband! That was the 

worst thing of all. Poor man! He might be a very 
pleasant honourable married gentleman with children 
and she—she was in a position to compromise him! 
Why hadn’t she screamed! Too late! Too late! 

It began to get very uncomfortable, stuffy, but at 
the same time draughty, and the floor was getting 
harder every minute. She changed her position 
stealthily and controlled her desire to cough. Her 
heart was beating rapidly. Over and over again 
recurred the vivid impression of every little incident 
and argument that had occurred to her from the 
moment she left the bathroom. This must, of 
course, be the room next to her own. So confusing 
with perhaps twenty bedrooms all exactly alike on 
one side of a passage—how was one to remember 
whether one’s number was 115 or 116? 

Her mind began to wander idly off into her school¬ 
days. She was always very bad at figures. She 
disliked Euclid and all those subjects about angles 
and equations—so unimportant, not leading any¬ 
where. History she liked, and botany, and reading 
about strange foreign lands, although she had always 
been too timid to visit them. And the lives of great 
people, most fascinating—Oliver Cromwell, Lord 
Beaconsfield, Lincoln, Grace Darling —there was a 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 15 

heroine for you—General Booth, a great good man, 
even if a little vulgar. She remembered dear old 
Miss Trimming talking about him one afternoon at 
the vicar of St. Bride’s garden party. She was so 
amusing. She. . . . Good heavens! 

Almost unwittingly , Millicent Bracegirdle had emit¬ 
ted a violent sneeze ! 

It was finished! For the second time that night 
she was conscious of her heart nearly stopping. For 
the second time that night she was so paralyzed with 
fear that her mentality went to pieces. Now she 
would hear the man get out of bed. He would walk 
across to the door, switch on the light, and then lift 
up the frill. She could almost see that fierce mous¬ 
tached face glaring at her and growling something in 
French. Then he would thrust out an arm and drag 
her out. And then? O God in heaven! What 
then? . . . 

“I shall scream before he does it. Perhaps I had 
better scream now. If he drags me out he will clap 
his hand over my mouth. Perhaps chloro¬ 
form. . . 

But somehow she could not scream. She was too 
frightened even for that. She lifted the frill and 
listened. Was he moving stealthily across the 
carpet? She thought—no, she couldn’t be sure. 
Anything might be happening. He might strike 
her from above—with one of those heavy boots 
perhaps. Nothing seemed to be happening, but 
the suspense was intolerable. She realized now that 


16 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

she hadn’t the power to endure a night of it. Any¬ 
thing would be better than this—disgrace, im¬ 
prisonment, even death. She would crawl out, 
wake the man, and try and explain as best she could. 

She would switch on the light, cough, and say: 
“Monsieur /” 

Then he would start up and stare at her. 

Then she would say—what should she say? 

“ Pardon , monsieur , mais je -” What on earth 

was the French for “I have made a mistake”? 

“ J’ai tort. C y est la chambre —er—incorrect. 
Voulezvous —er-” 

What was the French for “door-knob,” “let me 
go”? 

It didn’t matter. She would turn on the light, 
cough and trust to luck. If he got out of bed, and 
came toward her, she would scream the hotel 
down. . . . 

The resolution formed, she crawled deliberately 
out at the foot of the bed. She scrambled hastily 
toward the door—a perilous journey. In a few 
seconds the room was flooded with light. She turned 
toward the bed, coughed, and cried out boldly: 

“ Monsieur /” 

Then, for the third time that night, little Miss 
Bracegirdle’s heart all but stopped. In this case the 
climax of the horror took longer to develop, but 
when it was reached, it clouded the other two ex¬ 
periences into insignificance. 

The man on the bed was dead ! 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 17 

She had never beheld death before, but one does 
not mistake death. 

She stared at him bewildered, and repeated almost 
in a whisper: 

“Monsieur! . . . Monsieur!” 

Then she tip-toed toward the bed. The hair and 
and moustache looked extraordinarily black in that 
gray wax-like setting. The mouth was slightly open, 
and the face, which in life might have been vicious 
and sensual, looked incredibly peaceful and far away. 

It was as though she were regarding the features 
of a man across some vast passage of time, a being 
who had always been completely remote from mun¬ 
dane preoccupations. 

When the full truth came home to her, little Miss 
Bracegirdle buried her face in her hands and mur¬ 
mured: 

“Poor fellow . . . poor fellow!” 

For the moment her own position seemed an affair 
of small consequence. She was in the presence of 
something greater and more all-pervading. Almost 
instinctively she knelt by the bed and prayed. 

For a few moments she seemed to be possessed by 
an extraordinary calmness and detachment. The 
burden of her hotel predicament was a gossamer 
trouble—a silly, trivial, almost comic episode, some¬ 
thing that could be explained away. 

But this man—he had lived his life, whatever it 
was like, and now he was in the presence of his Maker. 
What kind of man had he been? 


18 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

Her meditations were broken by an abrupt sound. 
It was that of a pair of heavy boots being thrown 
down by the door outside. She started, thinking 
at first it was someone knocking or trying to get in. 
She heard the “ boots,” however, stamping away 
down the corridor, and the realization stabbed her 
with the truth of her own position. She mustn’t stop 
there. The necessity to get out was even more 
urgent. 

To be found in a strange man’s bedroom in the 
night is bad enough, but to be found in a dead man’s 
bedroom was even worse. They would accuse her of 
murder, perhaps. Yes, that would be it—how could 
she possibly explain to these foreigners? Good 
God! they would hang her. No, guillotine her, 
that’s what they do in France. They would chop 
her head off* with a great steel knife. Merciful 
heavens! She envisaged herself standing blindfold 
by a priest and an executioner in a red cap, like that 
man in the Dickens’s story—what was his name ? . . . 
Sydney Carton, that was it, and before he went on 
the scaffold he said: 

“It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have 
ever done.” 

But no, she couldn’t say that. It would be a far, 
far worse thing that she did. What about the dear 
Dean? Her sister-in-law arriving alone from Para¬ 
guay to-morrow? All her dear people and friends in 
Easingstoke? Her darling Tony, the large gray 
tabby cat? It was her duty not to have her head 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 19 

chopped off if it could possibly be avoided. She 
could do no good in the room. She could not recall 
the dead to life. Her only mission was to escape. 
Any minute people might arrive. The chamber¬ 
maid, the boots, the manager, the gendarmes. . . . 
Visions of gendarmes arriving armed with swords 
and note-books vitalized her almost exhausted 
energies. She was a desperate woman. Fortunately 
now she had not to worry about the light. She 
sprang once more at the door and tried to force it 
open with her fingers. The result hurt her and gave 
her pause. If she was to escape she must think , and 
think intensely. She mustn't do anything rash and 
silly, she must just think and plan calmly. 

She examined the lock carefully. There was no 
keyhole, but there was a slip-bolt, so that the hotel 
guest could lock the door on the inside, but it couldn’t 
be locked on the outside. Oh, why didn’t this poor 
dear dead man lock his door last night? Then this 
trouble could not have happened. She could see the 
end of the steel pin. It was about half an inch down 
the hole. If any one was passing they must surely 
notice the handle sticking out too far the other side! 
She drew a hairpin out of her hair and tried to coax 
the pin back, but she only succeeded in pushing it a 
little farther in. She felt the colour leaving her face, 
and a strange feeling of faintness come over her. 

She was fighting for her life; she mustn’t give way. 
She darted round the room like an animal in a trap, 
her mind alert for the slightest crevice of escape. 


20 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

The window had no balcony and there was a drop of 
five stories to the street below. Dawn was breaking. 
Soon the activities of the hotel and the city would 
begin. The thing must be accomplished before then. 

She went back once more and stared at the lock. 
She stared at the dead man’s property, his razors, 
and brushes, and writing materials. He appeared 
to have a lot of writing materials, pens and pencils 
and rubber and sealing-wax. . . . Sealing-wax! 

Necessity is truly the mother of invention. It is 
in any case quite certain that Millicent Bracegirdle, 
who had never invented a thing in her life, would 
never have evolved the ingenious little device she 
did, had she not believed that her position was utterly 
desperate. For in the end this is what she did. She 
got together a box of matches, a candle, a bar of 
sealing-wax, and a hairpin. She made a little pool 
of hot sealing-wax, into which she dipped the end of 
the hairpin. Collecting a small blob on the end of 
it she thrust it into the hole, and let it adhere to the 
end of the steel pin. At the seventh attempt she got 
the thing to move. It took her just an hour and ten 
minutes to get that steel pin back into the room, and 
when at length it came far enough through for her 
to grip it with her finger-nails, she burst into tears 
through the sheer physical tension of the strain. 
Very, very carefully she pulled it through and hold¬ 
ing it firmly with her left hand she fixed the knob 
with her right, then slowly turned it. The door 
opened! 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 21 


The temptation to dash out into the corridor and 
scream with relief was almost irresistible, but she 
forbore. She listened; she peeped out. No one 
was about. With beating heart, she went out, clos¬ 
ing the door inaudibly. She crept like a little mouse 
to the room next door, stole in and flung herself on 
her bed. Immediately she did so it flashed through 
her mind that she had left her sponge-bag and towel in 
the dead mans room! 

In looking back upon her experience she always 
considered that that second expedition was the worst 
of all. She might have left the sponge-bag and 
towel there, only that the towel—she never used hotel 
towels—had neatly inscribed in the corner “M.B.” 

With furtive caution she managed to retrace her 
steps. She reentered the dead man’s room, re¬ 
claimed her property and returned to her own. 
When this mission was accomplished she was indeed 
well-nigh spent. She lay on her bed and groaned 
feebly. At last she fell into a fevered sleep. . . . 

It was eleven o’clock when she awoke and no one 
had been to disturb her. The sun was shining, and 
the experiences of the night appeared a dubious 
nightmare. Surely she had dreamt it all? 

With dread still burning in her heart she rang the 
bell. After a short interval of time the chambermaid 
appeared. The girl’s eyes were bright with some 
uncontrollable excitement. No, she had not been 
dreaming. This girl had heard something. 

“Will you bring me some tea, please?” 


22 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


“Certainly, madame.” 

The maid drew back the curtains and fussed about 
the room. She was under a pledge of secrecy but 
she could contain herself no longer. Suddenly she 
approached the bed and whispered excitedly: 

“Oh, madame, I have promised not to tell . . . 

but a terrible thing has happened. A man, a dead 
man, has been found in room 117—a guest. Please 
not to say I tell you But they have all been here, 
the gendarmes, the doctors, the inspectors. Oh, it 
is terrible . . . terrible/’ 

The little lady in the bed said nothing. There 
was indeed nothing to say. But Marie Louise 
Laucrat was too full of emotional excitement to spare 
her. 

“But the terrible thing is. . . . Do you know 

who he was, madame? They say it is Boldhu, the 
man wanted for the murder of Jean Carreton in the 
barn at Vincennes. They say he strangled her, and 
then cut her up in pieces and hid her in two barrels 
which he threw into the river. . . . Oh, but he 

was a bad man, madame, a terrible bad man . . . 

and he died in the room next door . . . suicide 

they think or was it an attack of the heart? . . . 

Remorse, some shock perhaps. . . . Did you 

say a cafe complete madame?” 

“No, thank you, my dear . . . just a cup of 

tea . . . strong tea. . . 

“ Parfaitement, madame.” 

The girl retired, and a little later a waiter entered 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 23 

the room with a tray of tea. She could never get 
over her surprise in this. It seemed so—well, inde¬ 
corous for a man—although only a waiter—to enter a 
lady’s bedroom. There was no doubt a great deal in 
what the dear Dean said. They were certainly very 
peculiar, these French people—they had most 
peculiar notions. It was not the way they behaved 
at Easingstoke. She got farther under the sheets, 
but the waiter appeared quite indifferent to the 
situation. He put the tray down and retired. 

When he had gone she sat up and sipped her tea, 
which gradually warmed her. She was glad the sun 
was shining. She would have to get up soon. They 
said that her sister-in-law’s boat was due to berth at 
one o’clock. That would give her time to dress 
comfortably, write to her brother, and then go down 
to the docks. Poor man! So he had been a murderer, 
a man who cut up the bodies of his victims . . . 

and she had spent the night in his bedroom! They 
were certainly a most—how could she describe it?— 
people. Nevertheless she felt a little glad that at the 
end she had been there to kneel and pray by his 
bedside. Probably nobody else had ever done that. 
It was very difficult to judge people. . . . Some¬ 

thing at some time might have gone wrong. He 
might not have murdered the woman after all. 
People were often wrongly convicted. She her¬ 
self. ... If the police had found her in that 
room at three o’clock that morning. . . . It is 

that which takes place in the heart which counts. 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


24 

One learns and learns. Had she not learnt that one 
can pray just as effectively lying under a bed as kneel¬ 
ing beside it? . . . Poor man! 

She washed and dressed herself and walked calmly 
down to the writing-room. There was no evidence 
of excitement among the other hotel guests. Prob¬ 
ably none of them knew about the tragedy except 
herself. She went to a writing table, and after 
profound meditation wrote as follows: 

My dear Brother,— 

I arrived late last night after a very pleasant journey. Every¬ 
one was very kind and attentive, the manager was sitting up for 
me. I nearly lost my spectacle case in the restaurant car! But 
a kind old gentleman found it and returned it to me. There was 
a most amusing American child on the train. I will tell you 
about her on my return. The people are very pleasant, but the 
food is peculiar, nothing plain and wholesome. I am going down 
to meet Annie at one o’clock. How have you been keeping, my 
dear? I hope you have not had any further return of the 
bronchial attacks. 

Please tell Lizzie that I remembered in the train on the way 
here that that large stone jar of marmalade that Mrs. Hunt made 
is behind those empty tins in the top shelf of the cupboard next 
to the coach house. I wonder whether Mrs. Butler was able 
to come to evensong after all? This is a nice hotel, but I think 
Annie and I will stay at the “Grand” to-night, as the bedrooms 
here are rather noisy. Well, my dear, nothing more till I return. 
Do take care of yourself.—Your loving sister, 

Millicent. 

Yes, she couldn’t tell Peter about it, neither in the 
letter nor when she went back to him. It was her 
duty not to tell him. It would only distress him; 
she felt convinced of it. In this curious foreign 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 25 

atmosphere the thing appeared possible, but in 
Easingstoke the mere recounting of the fantastic 
situations would be positively . . . indelicate.. 

There was no escaping that broad general fact—she 
had spent a night in a strange man’s bedroom. 
Whether he was a gentleman or a criminal, even 
whether he was dead or alive, did not seem to miti¬ 
gate the jar upon her sensibilities, or rather it would 
not mitigate the jar upon the peculiarly sensitive 
relationship between her brother and herself. To 
say that she had been to the bathroom, the knob 
of the door-handle came off in her hand, she was 
too frightened to awaken the sleeper or scream, she 
got under the bed—well, it was all perfectly true. 
Peter would believe her, but—one simply could not 
conceive such a situation in Easingstoke deanery. 
It would create a curious little barrier between them, 
as though she had been dipped in some mysterious 
solution which alienated her. It was her duty not 
to tell. 

She put on her hat, and went out to post the letter. 
She distrusted an hotel letter-box. One never knew 
who handled these letters. It was not a proper 
official way of treating them. She walked to the 
head post office in Bordeaux. 

The sun was shining. It was very pleasant walking 
about amongst these queer excitable people, so 
foreign and different-looking—and the cafes already 
crowded with chattering men and women, and the 
flower stalls, and the strange odour of—what was it? 


26 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


Salt? Brine? Charcoal? . . . A military band 

was playing in the square . . . very gay and 

moving. It was all life, and movement, and bustle 
. . . thrilling rather. 

“I spent a night in a strange man’s bedroom.” 

Little Miss Bracegirdle hunched her shoulders, 
murmured to herself and walked faster. She reached 
the post office and found the large metal plate with 
the slot for letters and “R.F.” stamped above it. 
Something official at last! Her face was a little 
flushed—was it the warmth of the day or the contact 
of movement and life?—as she put her letter into the 
slot. After posting it she put her hand into the slot 
and flicked it round to see that there were no foreign 
contraptions to impede its safe delivery. No, the 
letter had dropped safely in. She sighed contentedly 
and walked off in the direction of the docks to meet 
her sister-in-law from Paraguay. 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 

r l THE public bar of the “Wagtail,” in Wap- 
ping, four men and a woman were drinking beer 
and discussing diseases. It was not a pretty 
subject, and the company was certainly not a hand¬ 
some one. It was a dark November evening, and 
the dingy lighting of the bar seemed but to empha¬ 
size the bleak exterior. Drifts of fog and damp from 
without mingled with the smoke of shag. The 
sanded floor was kicked into a muddy morass not 
unlike the surface of the pavement. An old lady 
down the street had died from pneumonia the pre¬ 
vious evening, and the event supplied a fruitful topic 
of conversation. The things that one could get! 
Everywhere were germs eager to destroy one. At 
any minute the symptoms might break out. And 
so—one foregathered in a cheerful spot amidst friends 
and drank forgetfulness. 

Prominent in this little group was Baldwin 
Meadows, a sallow-faced villain with battered fea¬ 
tures and prominent cheek-bones, his face cut and 
scarred by a hundred fights. Ex-seaman, ex-boxer, 
ex-fish-porter—indeed, to everyone’s knowledge, 
ex-everything. No one knew how he lived. By 
his side lurched an enormous coloured man who went 


27 


28 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


by the name of Harry Jones. Grinning above a 
tankard sat a pimply faced young man who was 
known as “the Agent.” Silver rings adorned his 
fingers. He had no other name, and most emphati¬ 
cally no address, but he “arranged things” for 
people, and appeared to thrive upon it in a scramb¬ 
ling, fugitive manner. The other two people were 
Mr. and Mrs. Dawes. Mr. Dawes was an entirely 
negative person, but Mrs. Dawes shone by virtue 
of a high, whining, insistent voice, keyed to within 
half a note of hysteria. 

Then, at one point, the conversation suddenly 
took a peculiar turn. It came about through Mrs. 
Dawes mentioning that her aunt, who died from eat¬ 
ing tinned lobster, used to work in a corset shop in 
Wych Street. When she said that, “the Agent,” 
whose right eye appeared to survey the ceiling, 
whilst his left eye looked over the other side of his 
tankard, remarked: 

“Where was Wych Street, ma?” 

“Lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Dawes. “Don’t you 
know, dearie? You must be a young ’un, you must. 
Why, when I was a gal everyone knew Wych Street. 
It was just down there where they built the Kings- 
way, like.” 

Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat and said: 

“Wych Street used to be a turnin’ runnin* from 
Long Acre into Wellington Street.” 

“Oh, no, old boy,” chipped in Mr. Dawes, who 
always treated the ex-man with great deference. 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 


29 

“If you’ll excuse me, Wych Street was a narrow lane 
at the back of the old Globe Theatre, that used to pass 
by the church.” 

“I know what I’m talkin’ about,” growled Mea¬ 
dows. 

Mrs. Dawes’s high nasal whine broke in: 

“Hi, Mr. Booth, you used ter knowyer wye abaht. 
Where was Wych Street?” 

Mr. Booth, the proprietor, was polishing a tap. 
He looked up. “Wych Street? Yus, of course I 
knoo Wych Street. Used to go there with some of the 
boys when I was Covent Garden way. It was at right 
angles to the Strand, just east of Wellington Street.” 

“No, it warn’t. It were alongside the Strand, 
before yer come to Wellington Street.” 

The coloured man took no part in the discussion, 
one street and one city being alike to him, provided 
he could obtain the material comforts dear to his 
heart; but the others carried it on with a certain 
amount of acerbity. 

Before any agreement had been arrived at three 
other men entered the bar. The quick eye of Mea¬ 
dows recognized them at once as three of what was 
known at that time as “The Gallows Ring.” Every 
member of “The Gallows Ring” had done time, but 
they still carried on a lucrative industry devoted to 
blackmail, intimidation, shop-lifting, and some of the 
clumsier recreations. Their leader, Ben Orming, had 
served seven years for bashing a Chinaman down at 
Rotherhithe. 


30 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


“The Gallows Ring” was not popular in Wapping, 
for the reason that many of their depredations had 
been inflicted upon their own class. When Meadows 
and Harry Jones took it into their heads to do a little 
wild prancing they took the trouble to go up into the 
West End. They considered “The Gallows Ring” 
an ungentlemanly set; nevertheless, they always 
treated them with a certain external deference—an 
unpleasant crowd to quarrel with. 

Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, 
and they leant against the bar and whispered in 
sullen accents. Something had evidently miscarried 
with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine 
above the general droneof the bar. Suddenly she said: 

“ Ben, you’re a hot old devil, you are. We was just 
’aving a discussion like. Where was Wych Street?” 

Ben scowled at her, and she continued: 

“Some sez it was one place, some sez it was 
another. I know where it was, ’cors my aunt what 
died from blood p'ison, after eatin’ tinned lobster, 
used to work at a corset shop. . . .” 

“Yus,” barked Ben, emphatically. “I know 
where Wych Street was—it was just sarth of the 
river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station.” 

It was then that the coloured man, who up to that 
point had taken no part in the discussion, thought 
fit to intervene. 

“Nope. You’s all wrong, cap’n. Wych Street 
were alongside de church, way over where de Strand 
takes a side line up west.” 


3i 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 

Ben turned on him fiercely. 

“What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know 
abaht it? Fve told yer where Wych Street was.” 

“Yus, and I know where it was,” interposed Mea¬ 
dows. “Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turn¬ 
ing running from Long Acre into Wellington Street.” 

“I didn’t ask yer what you thought,” growled Ben. 

“Well, I suppose Fve a right to an opinion?” 

“You always think you know everything, you do.” 

“You can just keep yer mouth shut.” 

“It ’ud take more’n you to shut it.” 

Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to 
bawl across the bar: 

“Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling—please.” 

The affair might have subsided at that point, but 
for Mrs. Dawes. Her emotions over the death of 
the old lady in the street had been so stirred that she 
had been, almost unconsciously, drinking too much 
gin. She suddenly screamed out: 

“Don’t you take no lip from ’im, Mr. Medders. 
The dirty, thieving devil, ’e always thinks ’e’s goin’ 
to come it over everyone.” 

She stood up threateningly, and one of Ben’s 
supporters gave her a gentle push backward. In 
three minutes the bar was in a complete state of 
pandemonium. The three members of “The Gal¬ 
lows Ring” fought two men and a woman, for Mr. 
Dawes merely stood in a corner and screamed out: 

“Don’t! Don’t!” 

Mrs. Dawes stabbed the man, who had pushed her. 


32 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

through the wrist with a hatpin. Meadows and 
Ben Orming closed on each other and fought savagely 
with the naked fists. A lucky blow early in the 
encounter sent Meadows reeling against the wall, with 
blood streaming down his temple. Then the coloured 
man hurled a pewter tankard straight at Ben and it 
hit him on the knuckles. The pain maddened him 
to a frenzy. His other supporter had immediately 
got to grips with Harry Jones, and picked up one of 
the high stools and, seizing an opportunity, brought 
it down crash on to the coloured man’s skull. 

The whole affair was a matter of minutes. Mr. 
Booth was bawling out in the street. A whistle 
sounded. People were running in all directions. 

“Beat it! Beat it, for God’s sake!” called the 
man who had been stabbed through the wrist. His 
face was very white, and he was obviously about to 
faint. 

Ben and the other man, whose name was Toller, 
dashed to the door. On the pavement there was a 
confused scramble. Blows were struck indiscrimi¬ 
nately. Two policemen appeared. One was laid 
hors de combat by a kick on the knee-cap from Toller. 
The two men fled into the darkness, followed by a 
hue-and-cry. Born and bred in the locality, they 
took every advantage of their knowledge. They 
tacked through alleys and raced down dark mews, 
and clambered over walls. Fortunately for them, 
the people they passed, who might have tripped 
them up or aided in the pursuit, merely fled indoors. 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 33 

The people in Wapping are not always on the side 
of the pursuer. But the police held on. At last 
Ben and Toller slipped through the door of a house 
in Aztec Street barely ten yards ahead of their near¬ 
est pursuer. Blows rained on the door, but they 
slipped the bolts, and then fell panting to the floor. 
When Ben could speak, he said: 

“If they cop us, it means swinging.” 

“Was the nigger done in?” 

“I think so. But even if ’e wasn’t, there was 
that other affair the night before last. The game’s 
up.” 

The ground floor rooms were shuttered and 
bolted, but they knew that the police would probably 
force the front door. At the back there was no 
escape, only a narrow stable yard, where lanterns 
were already flashing. The roof only extended 
thirty yards either way, and the police would prob¬ 
ably take possession of it. They made a round of the 
house, which was sketchily furnished. There was a 
loaf, a small piece of mutton, and a bottle of pickles, 
and—the most precious possession—three bottles of 
whisky. Each man drank half a glass of neat whisky, 
then Ben said: “We’ll be able to keep ’em quiet for 
a bit, anyway,” and he went and fetched an old 
twelve-bore gun and a case of cartridges. Toller was 
opposed to this last desperate resort, but Ben con¬ 
tinued to murmur: “It means swinging, anyway.” 


34 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


And thus began the notorious siege of Aztec Street, 
It lasted three days and four nights. You may re¬ 
member that, on forcing a panel of the front door 
Sub-Inspector Wraithe, of the V Division, was shot 
through the chest. The police then tried other 
methods. A hose was brought into play, without 
effect. Two policemen were killed and four wounded. 
The military was requisitioned. The street was 
picketed. Snipers occupied windows of the houses 
opposite. A distinguished member of the Cabinet 
drove down in a motor-car, and directed operations 
in a top-hat. It was the introduction of poison gas 
which was the ultimate cause of the downfall of the 
citadel. The body of Ben Orming was never found, 
but that of Toller was discovered near the front door, 
with a bullet through his heart. 

The medical officer to the court pronounced that 
the man had been dead three days, but whether killed 
by a chance bullet from a sniper or whether killed 
deliberately by his fellow-criminal was never re¬ 
vealed. For when the end came Orming had ap¬ 
parently planned a final act of venom. It was known 
that in the basement a considerable quantity of 
petrol had been stored. The contents had probably 
been carefully distributed over the most inflammable 
materials in the top rooms. The fire broke out, as 
one witness described it, ‘‘almost like an explosion.” 
Orming must have perished in this. The roof blazed 
up, and the sparks carried across the yard and started 
a stack of light timber in the annex of Messrs. 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 


35 

Morrel’s piano factory. The factory and two 
blocks of tenement buildings were burnt to the 
ground. The estimated cost of the destruction was 
one hundred and eighty thousand pounds. The 
casualties amounted to seven killed and fifteen 
wounded. 

***** 

At the inquiry held under Justice Pengammon, 
various odd, interesting facts were revealed. Mr. 
Lowes-Parlby, the brilliant young K.C., dis¬ 
tinguished himself by his searching cross-examination 
of many witnesses. At one point a certain Mrs. 
Dawes was put in the box. 

“Now,” said Mr. Lowes-Parlby, “I understand 
that on the evening in question, Mrs. Dawes, you, 
and the victims, and these other people who have 
been mentioned, were all seated in the public bar of 
the ‘Wagtail,’ enjoying its no doubt excellent hospi¬ 
tality and indulging in a friendly discussion. Is that 
so?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Now, will you tell his lordship what you were 
discussing?” 

“Diseases, sir.” 

“Diseases! And did the argument become acri¬ 
monious?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Was there a serious dispute about diseases?” 

“No, sir.” 


36 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“Well, what was the subject of the dispute?” 

“We was arguin’ as to where Wych Street was, 
sir.” 

“What’s that?” said his lordship. 

“The witness states, my lord, that they were argu¬ 
ing as to where Wych Street was.” 

“Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You mean the narrow old street that used to run 
across the site of what is now the Gaiety Theatre?” 

Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming 
manner. 

“Yes, my lord, I believe the witness refers to the 
same street you mention, though, if I may be allowed 
to qualify your lordship’s description of the locality, 
may I suggest that it was a little farther east—at the 
side of the old Globe Theatre, which was adjacent to 
St. Martin’s in the Strand? That is the street you 
were all arguing about, isn’t it, Mrs. Dawes?” 

“Well, sir, my aunt, who died from eating tinned 
lobster, used to work at a corset shop. I ought to 
know.” 

His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to 
the counsel rather peevishly: 

“Mr. Lowes-Parlby, when I was your age I used to 
pass through Wych Street every day of my life. I 
did so for nearly twelve years. I think it hardly 
necessary for you to contradict me.” 

The counsel bowed. It was not his place to dis¬ 
pute with a justice, although that justice be a hope- 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 


37 

less old fool; but another eminent K.C., an elderly- 
man with a tawny beard, rose in the body of the 
court, and said: 

“If I may be allowed to interpose, your lordship, 
I also spent a great deal of my youth passing through 
Wych Street. I have gone into the matter, compar¬ 
ing past and present ordnance survey maps. If I 
am not mistaken, the street the witness was referring 
to began near the hoarding at the entrance to Kings- 
way and ended at the back of what is now the Ald- 
wych Theatre.” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Backer!” exclaimed Lowes-Parlby. 

His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out: 

“The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case.” 

It certainly was, but the brief passage-of-arms 
left an unpleasant tang of bitterness behind. It was 
observed that Mr. Lowes-Parlby never again quite 
got the prehensile grip upon his cross-examination 
that he had shown in his treatment of the earlier 
witnesses. The coloured man, Harry Jones, had 
died in hospital, but Mr. Booth, the proprietor of the 
“Wagtail,” Baldwin Meadows, Mr. Dawes and the 
man who was stabbed in the wrist, all gave evidence 
of a rather nugatory character. Lowes-Parlby could 
do nothing with it. The findings of this special 
inquiry do not concern us. It is sufficient to say 
that the witnesses already mentioned all returned to 
Wapping. The man who had received the thrust of a 
hatpin through his wrist did not think it advisable 
to take any action against Mrs. Dawes. He was 


38 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

pleasantly relieved to find that he was only required 
as a witness of an abortive discussion. 

***** 

In a few weeks’ time the great Aztec Street siege 
remained only a romantic memory to the majority of 
Londoners. To Lowes-Parlby the little dispute with 
Justice Pengammon rankled unreasonably. It is 
annoying to be publicly snubbed for making a state¬ 
ment which you know to be absolutely true, and which 
you have even taken pains to verify. And Lowes- 
Parlby was a young man accustomed to score. He 
made a point of looking everything up, of being pre¬ 
pared for an adversary thoroughly. He liked to give 
the appearance of knowing everything. The brilliant 
career just ahead of him at times dazzled him. He 
was one of the darlings of the gods. Everything came 
to Lowes-Parlby. His father had distinguished him¬ 
self at the Bar before him, and had amassed a modest 
fortune. He was an only son. At Oxford he had 
carried off* every possible degree. He was already 
being spoken of for very high political honours. 

But the most sparkling jewel in the crown of his 
successes was Lady Adela Charters, the daughter of 
Lord Vermeer, the Minister for Foreign Affairs. 
She was his fiancee , and it was considered the most 
brilliant match of the season. She was young and 
almost pretty, and Lord Vermeer was immensely 
wealthy and one of the most influential men in Great 
Britain. Such a combination was irresistible. There 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 39 

seemed to be nothing missing in the life of Francis 
Lowes-Parlby, K.C. 

***** 

One of the most regular and absorbed spectators at 
the Aztec Street inquiry was old Stephen Garrit. 
Stephen Garrit held a unique but quite inconspicuous 
position in the legal world at that time. He was a 
friend of judges, a specialist at various abstruse 
legal rulings, a man of remarkable memory, and yet— 
an amateur. He had never taken silk, never eaten 
the requisite dinners, never passed an examination in 
his life; but the law of evidence was meat and drink 
to him. He passed his life in the Temple, where he 
had chambers. Some of the most eminent counsel 
in the world would take his opinion, or come to him 
for advice. He was very old, very silent and very 
absorbed. He attended every meeting of the Aztec 
Street inquiry, but from beginning to end he never 
volunteered an opinion. 

After the inquiry was over, he went and visited an 
old friend at the London Survey Office. He spent 
two mornings examining maps. After that he spent 
two mornings pottering about the Strand, Kingsway 
and Aldwych; then he worked out some careful calcu¬ 
lations on a ruled chart. He entered the particulars in 
a little book which he kept for purposes of that kind, 
and then retired to his chambers to study other mat¬ 
ters. But, before doing so, he entered a little apoph¬ 
thegm in another book. It was apparently a book in 


4 o MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

which he intended to compile a summary of his legal 
experiences. The sentence ran: 

“The basic trouble is that people make statements 
without sufficient data.” 

Old Stephen need not have appeared in this story 
at all, except for the fact that he was present at the 
dinner at Lord Vermeer’s, where a rather deplorable 
incident occurred. And you must acknowledge that 
in the circumstances it is useful to have such a valu¬ 
able and efficient witness. 

Lord Vermeer was a competent, forceful man, a 
little quick-tempered and autocratic. He came from 
Lancashire, and before entering politics had made an 
enormous fortune out of borax, artificial manure, and 
starch. 

It was a small dinner party, with a motive behind 
it. His principal guest was Mr. Sandeman, the 
London agent of the Ameer of Bakkan. Lord Ver¬ 
meer was very anxious to impress Mr. Sandeman and 
to be very friendly with him: the reasons will appear 
later. Mr. Sandeman was a self-confessed cosmo¬ 
politan. He spoke seven languages and professed to 
be equally at home in any capital in Europe. Lon¬ 
don had been his headquarters for over twenty years. 
Lord Vermeer also invited Mr. Arthur Toombs, a 
colleague in the Cabinet, his prospective son-in-law, 
Lowes-Parlby, K.C., James Trolley, a very tame 
Socialist M.P., and Sir Henry and Lady Breyd, the 
two latter being invited, not because Sir Henry was 
of any use, but because Lady Breyd was a pretty 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 


4i 

and brilliant woman who might amuse his principal 
guest. The sixth guest was Stephen Garrit. 

The dinner was a great success. When the suc¬ 
cession of courses eventually came to a stop, and the 
ladies had retired, Lord Vermeer conducted his male 
guests into another room for a ten minutes’ smoke 
before rejoining them. It was then that the un¬ 
fortunate incident occurred. There was no love lost 
between Lowes-Parlby and Mr. Sandeman. It is 
difficult to ascribe the real reason of their mutual 
animosity, but on the several occasions when they 
had met there had invariably passed a certain sar¬ 
donic by-play. They were both clever, both com¬ 
paratively young, each a little suspect and jealous 
of the other; moreover, it was said in some quarters 
that Mr. Sandeman had had intentions himself with 
regard to Lord Vermeer’s daughter, that he had been 
on the point of a proposal when Lowes-Parlby had 
butted in and forestalled him. 

Mr. Sandeman had dined well, and he was in the 
mood to dazzle with a display of his varied knowledge 
and experiences. The conversation drifted from a 
discussion of the rival claims of great cities to the 
slow, inevitable removal of old landmarks. There 
had been a slightly acrimonious disagreement be¬ 
tween Lowes-Parlby and Mr. Sandeman as to the 
claims of Budapest and Lisbon, and Mr. Sandeman 
had scored because he extracted from his rival a 
confession that, though he had spent two months in 
Budapest, he had only spent two days in Lisbon. 


42 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

Mr. Sandeman had lived for four years in either city. 
Lowes-Parlby changed the subject abruptly. 

“Talking of landmarks,” he said, “we had a queer 
point arise in that Aztec Street Inquiry. The original 
dispute arose owing to a discussion between a crowd 
of people in a pub. as to where Wych Street was.” 

“I remember,” said Lord Vermeer. “A perfectly 
absurd discussion. Why, I should have thought 
that any man over forty would remember exactly 
where it was.” 

“Where would you say it was, sir?” asked Lowes- 
Parlby. 

“Why, to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chan¬ 
cery Lane and ended at the second turning after the 
Law Courts, going west.” 

Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sande¬ 
man cleared his throat and said, in his supercilious, 
oily voice: 

“Excuse me, my lord. I know my Paris, and 
Vienna, and Lisbon, every brick and stone, but I 
look upon London as my home. I know my London 
even better. I have a perfectly clear recollection of 
Wych Street. When I was a student I used to visit 
there to buy books. It ran parallel to New Oxford 
Street on the south side, just between it and Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields.” 

There was something about this assertion that 
infuriated Lowes-Parlby. In the first place, it was 
so hopelessly wrong and so insufferably asserted. 
In the second place, he was already smarting under 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 43 

the indignity of being shown up about Lisbon. And 
then there suddenly flashed through his mind the 
wretched incident when he had been publicly snubbed 
by Justice Pengammon about the very same point; 
and he knew that he was right each time. Damn 
Wych Street! He turned on Mr. Sandeman. 

“Oh, nonsense! You may know something about 
these—eastern cities; you certainly know nothing 
about London if you make a statement like that. 
Wych Street was a little farther east of what is now 
the Gaiety Theatre. It used to run by the side of the 
old Globe Theatre, parallel to the Strand.” 

The dark moustache of Mr. Sandeman shot up¬ 
ward, revealing a narrow line of yellow teeth. He 
uttered a sound that was a mingling of contempt and 
derision; then he drawled out: 

“Really? How wonderful—to have such compre¬ 
hensive knowledge!” 

He laughed, and his small eyes fixed his rival. 
Lowes-Parlby flushed a deep red. He gulped down 
half a glass of port and muttered just above a whis¬ 
per: “Damned impudence!” Then, in the rudest 
manner he could display, he turned his back deliber¬ 
ately on Sandeman and walked out of the room. 

***** 

In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little 
contretemps. The whole thing was so absurd—so 
utterly undignified. As though he didn’t know! 
It was the little accumulation of pinpricks all arising 


44 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

out of that one argument. The result had suddenly 
goaded him to—well, being rude, to say the least of 
it. It wasn’t that Sandeman mattered. To the 
devil with Sandeman! But what would his future 
father-in-law think? He had never before given 
way to any show of ill-temper before him. He 
forced himself into a mood of rather fatuous jocu¬ 
larity. Adela was at her best in those moods. They 
would have lots of fun together in the days to come. 
Her almost pretty, not too clever, face was dimpled 
with kittenish glee. Life was a tremendous rag to 
her. They were expecting Toccata, the famous 
opera-singer. She had been engaged at a very high 
fee to come on from Covent Garden. Mr. Sande¬ 
man was very fond of music. 

Adela was laughing and discussing which was the 
most honourable position for the great Sandeman to 
occupy. There came to Lowes-Parlby a sudden 
abrupt misgiving. What sort of wife would this be 
to him when they were not just fooling? He im¬ 
mediately dismissed the curious, furtive little stab 
of doubt. The splendid proportions of the room 
calmed his senses. A huge bowl of dark red roses 
quickened his perceptions. His career. . . . The 

door opened. But it was not La Toccata. It was 
one of the household flunkies. Lowes-Parlby turned 
again to his inamorata. 

“Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly 
go and see him in the library?” 

Lowes-Parlby regarded the messenger, and his 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 


45 

heart beat quickly. An incontrollable presage of 
evil racked his nerve centres. Something had gone 
wrong; and yet the whole thing was so absurd, trivial. 
In a crisis—well, he could always apologize. He 
smiled confidently at Adela, and said: 

“Why, of course; with pleasure. Please excuse 
me, dear.” 

He followed the impressive servant out of the 
room. His foot had barely touched the carpet of the 
library when he realized that his worst apprehensions 
were to be plumbed to the depths. For a moment 
he thought Lord Vermeer was alone, then he ob¬ 
served old Stephen Garrit, lying in an easy-chair in 
the corner like a piece of crumpled parchment. 
Lord Vermeer did not beat about the bush. When 
the door was closed, he bawled out, savagely: 

“What the devil have you done?” 

“Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand. 
Is it Sandeman. . . ?” 

“Sandeman has gone.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry! By God, I should think you might be 
sorry! You insulted him. My prospective son-in- 
law insulted him in my own house!” 

“I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t realize. . . .” 

“Realize! Sit down, and don’t assume for one 
moment that you continue to be my prospective son- 
in-law. Your insult was a most intolerable piece of 
effrontery, not only to him, but to me.” 

“But I. . . .” 


46 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“Listen to me. Do you know that the Govern¬ 
ment were on the verge of concluding a most far- 
reaching treaty with that man? Do you know that 
the position was just touch-and-go? The con¬ 
cessions we were prepared to make would have cost 
the State thirty million pounds, and it would have 
been cheap. Do you hear that? It would have 
been cheap! Bakkan is one of the most vulnerable 
outposts of the Empire. It is a terrible danger zone. 
If certain Powers can usurp our authority—and, 
mark you, the whole blamed place is already riddled 
with this new pernicious doctrine—you know what 
I mean—before we know where we are the whole 
East will be in a blaze. India! My God! This 
contract we were negotiating would have countered 
this outward thrust. And you, you blockhead, 
you come here and insult the man upon whose word 
the whole thing depends.” 

“I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this.” 

“You can't see it! But, you fool, you seemed to 
go out of your way. You insulted him about the 
merest quibble—in my house!” 

“He said he knew where Wych Street was. He 
was quite wrong. I corrected him.” 

“Wych Street! Wych Street be damned! If he 
said Wych Street was in the moon, you should have 
agreed with him. There was no call to act in 
the way you did. And you—you think of going 
into politics!” 

The somewhat cynical inference of this remark 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 


47 

went unnoticed. Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. 
He mumbled: 

“Pm very sorry.” 

“I don’t want your sorrow. I want something 
more practical.” 

“What’s that, sir?” 

“You will drive straight to Mr. Sandeman’s, 
find him, and apologize. Tell him you find that he 
was right about Wych Street after all. If you can’t 
find him to-night, you must find him to-morrow 
morning. I give you till midday to-morrow. If 
by that time you have not offered a handsome 
apology to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this 
house again, you do not see my daughter again. 
Moreover, all the power I possess will be devoted to 
hounding you out of that profession you have dis¬ 
honoured. Now you can go.” 

Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to 
his flat at Knightsbridge. Before acting he must 
have time to think. Lord Vermeer had given him 
till to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was 
done should be done after a night’s reflection. The 
fundamental purposes of his being were to be tested. 
He knew that. He was at a great crossing. Some 
deep instinct within him was grossly outraged. Is 
it that a point comes when success demands that a 
man shall sell his soul? It was all so absurdly 
trivial—a mere argument about the position of a 
street that had ceased to exist. As Lord Vermeer 
said, what did it matter about Wych Street? 


48 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

Of course he should apologize. It would hurt 
horribly to do so, but would a man sacrifice every¬ 
thing on account of some fooling argument about a 
street ? 

In his own rooms, Lowes-Parlby put on a dressing- 
gown, and, lighting a pipe, he sat before the fire. He 
would have given anything for companionship at 
such a moment—the right companionship. How 
lovely it would be to have—a woman, just the right 
woman, to talk this all over with; someone who 
understood and sympathized. A sudden vision 
came to him of Adela’s face grinning about the pro¬ 
spective visit of La Toccata, and again the low voice 
of misgiving whispered in his ears. Would Adela 
be—just the right woman? In very truth, did he 
really love Adela? Or was it all—a rag? Was life 
a rag—a game played by lawyers, politicians, and 
people ? 

The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit 
thinking, his mind principally occupied with the 
dazzling visions of the future. It was past midnight 
when he suddenly muttered a low “Damn!” and 
walked to the bureau. He took up a pen and wrote: 

Dear Mr. Sandeman,— 

I must apologize for acting so rudely to you last night. It was 
quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since find, on going into 
the matter, that you were quite right about the position of Wych 
Street. I can’t think how I made the mistake. Please forgive 
me. 

Yours cordially, 

Francis Lowes-Parlby. 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 49 

Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. 
One might have imagined at that point that the 
matter was finished. But there are certain little 
greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of 
stilling, and they kept Lowes-Parlby awake more 
than half the night. He kept on repeating to him¬ 
self, "It’s all positively absurd!” But the little 
greedy demons pranced around the bed, and they 
began to group things into two definite issues. On 
the one side, the great appearances; on the other, 
something at the back of it all, something deep, 
fundamental, something that could only be ex¬ 
pressed by one word—truth. If he had really loved 
Adela—if he weren’t so absolutely certain that 
Sandeman was wrong and he was right—why should 
he have to say that Wych Street was where it wasn’t ? 

“Isn’t there, after all,” said one of the little de¬ 
mons, “something which makes for greater happi¬ 
ness than success? Confess this, and we’ll let you 
sleep.” 

Perhaps that is one of the most potent weapons the 
little demons possess. However full our lives may 
be, we ever long for moments of tranquillity. And 
conscience holds before our eyes the mirror of an 
ultimate tranquillity. Lowes-Parlby was certainly 
not himself. The gay, debonair, and brilliant egoist 
was tortured, and tortured almost beyond control; 
and it had all apparently arisen through the ridicu¬ 
lous discussion about a street. At a quarter past 
three in the morning he arose from his bed with a 


So MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

groan, and, going into the other room, he tore the 
letter to Mr. Sandeman to pieces. 

***** 

Three weeks later old Stephen Garrit was lunching 
with the Lord Chief Justice. They were old friends, 
and they never found it incumbent to be very con¬ 
versational. The lunch was an excellent, but frugal, 
meal. They both ate slowly and thoughtfully, and 
their drink was water. It was not till they reached 
the dessert stage that his lordship indulged in any 
very informative comment, and then he recounted 
to Stephen the details of a recent case in which he 
considered that the presiding judge, by an un¬ 
precedented paralogy, misinterpreted the Law of 
Evidence. Stephen listened with absorbed attention. 
He took two cob-nuts from the silver dish, and turned 
them over meditatively, without cracking them. 
When his lordship had completely stated his opinion 
and peeled a pear, Stephen mumbled: 

“I have been impressed, very impressed indeed. 
Even in my own field of—limited observation—the 
opinion of an outsider, you may say—so often it 
happens—the trouble caused by an affirmation with¬ 
out sufficiently established data. I have seen lives 
lost, ruin brought about, endless suffering. Only last 
week, a young man—a brilliant career—almost 
shattered. People make statements without-” 

He put the nuts back on the dish and then, in an 
apparently irrelevant manner, he said abruptly: 


WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 


5 * 


“Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?” 

The Lord Chief Justice grunted. 

“Wych Street! Of course I do.” 

“Where would you say it was, my lord?” 

“Why, here, of course.” 

His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and 
sketched a plan on the tablecloth. 

“It used to run from there to here.” 

Stephen adjusted his glasses and carefully ex¬ 
amined the plan. He took a long time to do this, 
and when he had finished his hand instinctively went 
toward a breast pocket where he kept a notebook 
with little squared pages. Then he stopped and 
sighed. After all, why argue with the law? The law 
was like that—an excellent thing, not infallible, of 
course (even the plan of the Lord Chief Justice was a 
quarter of a mile out), but still an excellent, a wonder¬ 
ful thing. He examined the bony knuckles of his 
hands and yawned slightly. 

“Do you remember it?” said the Lord Chief 
Justice. 

Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to 
come from a long way off*: 

“Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melan¬ 
choly little street.” 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 


i 

A TRAMP came through a cutting by old Jerry 
Shindle’s nursery, and crossing the stile, 
stepped into the glare of the white road. 
He was a tall swarthy man with stubbly red whiskers 
which appeared to conceal the whole of his face, 
except a small portion under each eye about the size 
of a two shilling piece. His skin showed through 
the rents in a filthy old black green garment, and was 
the same colour as his face, a livid bronze. His toes 
protruded from his boots, which seemed to be home¬ 
made contraptions of canvas and string. He carried 
an ash stick, and the rest of his worldly belongings in 
a spotted red and white handkerchief. His worldly 
belongings consisted of some rags, a door-knob, a 
portion of a foot-rule, a tin mug stolen from a 
workhouse, half a dozen date stones, a small piece 
of very old bread, a raw onion, the shutter of a 
camera, and two empty matchboxes. 

He looked up and down the road as though un¬ 
certain of his direction. To the north it curved 
under the wooded opulence of Crawshay Park. To 
the south it stretched like a white ribbon across a 


52 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 53 

bold vista of shadeless downs. He was hungry and 
he eyed, critically, the potential possibilities of a 
cottage standing back from the road. It was a 
shabby little three-roomed affair with fowls running 
in and out of the front door, some washing on a line, 
and the sound of a child crying within. While he 
was hesitating, a farm labourer came through a gate 
to an adjoining field, and walked toward the cottage. 
He, too, carried property tied up in a red handker¬ 
chief. His other hand balanced a steel fork across 
his left shoulder. He was a thick-set, rather dour- 
looking man. As he came up the tramp said: 

“Where does this road lead to, mate?” 

The labourer replied brusquely: 

“ Pondhurst.” 

“How far?” 

“Three and a half miles.” 

Without embroidering this information any fur¬ 
ther he walked stolidly across the road and entered 
the garden of the cottage. The tramp watched him 
put the fork down by the lintel of the door. He saw 
him enter the cottage, and he heard a woman’s 
voice. He sighed and muttered into his stubbly red 
beard: “Lucky devil!” Then, hunching his shoul¬ 
ders, he set out with long flat-footed strides down the 
white road which led across the downs. 

11 

Having kicked some mud off his boots, the la¬ 
bourer, Martin Crosby, said to his wife: 


54 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“Dinner ready?” 

Emma Crosby was wringing out some clothes. 
Her face was shiny with the steam and the heat of 
the day. She answered petulantly: 

“No, it isn’t. You’ll have to wait another ten 
minutes, the ’taters aren’t cooked. I’ve enough to 
do this morning I can tell yer, what with the wash¬ 
ing, and Lizzie screaming with her teeth, and the 
biler going wrong.” 

“Ugh! There’s alius somethin’.” 

Martin knew there was no appeal against delay. 
He had been married four years; he knew his wife’s 
temper and mode of life sufficiently well. He went 
out into the garden and lighted his pipe. The 
fowls clucked round his feet and he kicked them 
away. He, too, was hungry. However, there would 
be food of a sort—in time. Some greasy pudding 
and potatoes boiled to a liquid mash, a piece of 
cheese perhaps. Well, there it was. When you 
work in the open air all day you can eat anything. 
The sun was pleasant on his face, the shag pungent 
and comforting. If only old Emma weren’t such 
a muddler! A good enough piece of goods when at 
her best, but always in a muddle, always behind 
time, no management, and then resentful because 
things went wrong. Lizzie: seven months old and 
two teeth through already and another coming. A 
lovely child, the spit and image of—what her mother 
must have been. Next time it would be a boy. 
Life wasn’t so bad—really. 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 55 

The gate clicked, and the tall figure of Ambrose 
Baines appeared. He was dressed in a corduroy 
coat and knickers, stout brown gaiters and square 
thick boots. Tucked under his arm was a gun with 
its two barrels pointing at the ground. He was the 
gamekeeper to Sir Septimus Letter. He stood just 
inside the gate and called out: 

“Mornin’, Martin/’ 

Martin replied: “Mornin’.” 

“ I was just passin’. The missus says you can have 
a cookin’ or so of runner beans if you wants ’em. 
We’ve got more than enough, and I hear as yours is 
blighty.” 

“Oh! . . . ay, thank’ee.” 

“Middlin’ hot to-day.” 

“Ay . . . terrible hot.” 

“When’ll you be cornin’?” 

“I’ll stroll over now. There’s nowt to do. I’m 
waitin’ dinner. I ’specks it’ll be a half-hour or so. 
You know what Emm is.” 

He went inside and fetched a basket. He said 
nothing to his wife, but rejoined Baines in the road. 
They strolled through the cutting and got into the 
back of the gamekeeper’s garden just inside the 
wood. Martin went along the row and filled his 
basket. Baines left him and went into his cottage. 
He could hear Mrs. Baines singing and washing 
up. 

Of course they had had their dinner. It would be 
like that. Mrs. Baines was a marvel. On one or 


56 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

two occasions Martin had entered their cottage. 
Everything was spick and span, and done on time. 
The two children always seemed to be clean and 
quiet. There were pretty pink curtains and framed 
oleographs. Mrs. Baines could cook, and she led 
the hymns at church—so they said. Even the gar¬ 
den was neat, and trim, and fruitful. Of course 
their runner beans would be prolific whilst his 
failed. Mrs. Baines appeared at the door and called 
out: 

“Mornin’, Mr. Crosby.” 

He replied gruffly: “Morning Mrs. Baines.” 

“ Middlin’ hot.” 

“Ay . . . terrible hot.” 

She was not what you would call a pretty, attrac¬ 
tive woman; but she was natty, competent, irre¬ 
pressibly cheerful. She would make a shilling go as 
far as Emma would a pound. The cottage had five 
rooms, all in a good state of repair. The roof had 
been newly thatched. All this was done for him, of 
course, by his employer. He paid no rent; Martin 
had to pay five shillings a week, and then the roof 
leaked, and the boiler never worked properly—but 
perhaps that was Emm’s fault. He picked up his 
basket and strolled toward the outer gate. As he 
did so, he heard the two children laughing, and 
Baines’s voice joining in. 

“Some people do have luck,” Martin murmured, 
and went back to his wife. 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 


57 


in 

Jack and Jill went up the hill 
To fetch a pail of water; 

Jack fell down and broke his crown 
And Jill came tumbling after! 

It was very pretty—the way Winny Baines sang 
that, balancing the smaller boy on her knee, and 
jerking him skyward on the last word. Not what 
the world would call a pretty woman, but pretty 
enough to Ambrose, with her clear skin, kind 
motherly eyes, and thin brown hair. Her voice had 
a quality which somehow always expressed her 
gentle and unconquerable nature. 

“ She’s too good for me,” Ambrose would think 
at odd moments. “She didn’t ought to be a game¬ 
keeper’s wife. She ought to be a lady—with car¬ 
riages, and comforts, and well-dressed friends.” 

The reflection would stir in him a feeling of sullen 
resentment, tempered with pride. She was a wonder¬ 
ful woman. She managed so well; she never com¬ 
plained. Of course, so far as the material necessities 
were concerned, there was enough and to spare. 
The cottage was comfortable, and reasonably well 
furnished—so far as he could determine. Of food 
there was abundance; game, rabbits, vegetables, 
eggs, fruit. The only thing he had to buy in the 
way of food was milk from the farm, and a few 
groceries from Mr. Meads’s shop. He paid nothing 


58 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

for the cottage and yet—he would have liked to have 
made things better for Winny. His wages were 
small, and there were clothes to buy, all kinds of little 
incidental expenses. There never seemed a chance 
to save and soon there would be the boy’s schooling. 

In spite of the small income, Winny always man¬ 
aged to keep herself and the children neat and smart, 
and even to help others like the more unfortunate 
Crosbys. She did all the work of the cottage, the 
care of the children, the mending and washing, and 
still found time to make jam, to preserve fruit, to 
grow flowers, and to sing in the church choir. She 
was the daughter of a piano-tuner at Bladestone, and 
the glamour of this early connection always hung 
between Ambrose and herself. To him a piano- 
tuner appeared a remote and romantic figure. It 
suggested a world of concerts, theatres, and Bo¬ 
hemian life. He was never quite clear about the 
precise functions of a piano-tuner, but he regarded 
his wife as the daughter of a public man, coming 
from a world far removed from the narrow limits of 
the life she was forced to lead with him. 

In spite of her repeated professions of happiness, 
Ambrose always felt a shade suspicious, not of her, 
but of his own ability to satisfy her every demand. 
Sometimes he would observe her looking round the 
little rooms, as though she were visualizing what 
they might contain. Perhaps she wanted a grand 
piano, or some inlaid chairs, or embroidered cover¬ 
ings. He had not the money to buy these things, 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 59 

and he knew that she would never ask for them; 
but still it was there—that queer gnawing sense of 
insecurity. At dawn he would wander through the 
coppices, drenched in dew, the gun under his arm, 
and the dog close to heel. The sunlight would come 
rippling over the jewelled leaves, and little clumps 
of primroses and violets would reveal themselves. 
Life would be good then, and yet somehow—it was 
not Winny’s life. Only through their children did 
they seem to know each other. 

Jack and Jill went up the hill 
To fetch a pail of water; 

Jack fell down and broke his crown 
And Jill came tumbling after! 

“Oo—Ambrose/’ the other boy was tugging at his 
beard, when Winny spoke. He pretended to scream 
with pain before he turned to his wife. 

“Yes, my dear?” 

“Will you be passing Mr. Meads’s shop? We have 
run out of candles.” 

“Oh ? Roight be, my love. I’ll be nigh there afore 
sundown. I have to order seed from Crumblings.” 

He was later than he expected at Mr. Meads’s shop. 
He had to wait whilst several women were being 
served. The portly owner’s new cash register went 
“tap-tapping!” five times before he got a chance to 
say: 

“Evenin’, Mr. Meads, give us a pound of candles, 
will ye?” 


6o MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


Mrs. Meads came in through a parlour at the back, 
in a rustling black dress. She was going to a welfare 
meeting at the vicar’s. She said: 

“Good evening, Mr. Baines, hope you are all 
nicely.” 

A slightly disturbing sight met the eye of Ambrose. 
The parlour door was open, and he could see a maid 
in a cap and apron clearing away tea things in the 
gaily furnished room. The Meads had got a servant! 
He knew that Meads was extending his business. 
He had a cheap clothing department now, and he 
was building a shed out at the back with the intention 
of supplying petrol to casual motorists, but—a 
servant! 

He picked up his packet of candles and muttered 
gruffly: 

“Good evenin’.” 

Before he had reached the door he heard “Tap- 
tapping!” His one and twopence had gone into 
the box. As he swung down the village street, he 
muttered to himself: 

“God! I wish I had his money!” 

IV 

When Mrs. Meads returned from the welfare 
meeting at half-past eight, she found Mr. Meads 
waiting for her in the parlour, and the supper laid. 
There was cold veal and beetroot, apple pie, cheese 
and stout. 

“I’m sorry I’m late, dear,” she said. 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 61 

“That’s all right, my love,” replied Mr. Meads, 
not looking up from his newspaper. 

“We had a lovely meeting—Mrs. Wonnicott was 
there, and Mrs. Beal, and Mrs. Edwin Pillcreak, and 
Mrs. James, and Ada, and both the Jamiesons, and 
the Vicar was perfectly sweet. He made two lovely 
speeches.” 

“Oh, that was nice,” said Mr. Meads, trying to 
listen and read a piquant paragraph about a divorce 
case at the same time. 

“I should think you want your supper.” 

“I’m ready when you are, my love.” 

Mr. Meads put down his newspaper, and drawing 
his chair up to the table, began to set about the veal. 
He was distinctly a man for his victuals. He carved 
rapidly for her, and less rapidly for himself. From 
this you must not imagine that he treated his wife 
meanly. On the contrary, he gave her a large help¬ 
ing, but a close observer could not help detecting 
that when carving for himself he seemed to take more 
interest in his job. Then he rang a little tinkly 
hand-bell and the new maid appeared. 

“Go into the shop, my dear,” he said, “and get me 
a pot of pickled walnuts from the second shelf on the 
left before you come to them bales of calico.” 

The maid went, and Mrs. Meads clucked: 

“Urn—being a bit extravagant to-night, John.” 

“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” quoted Mr. 
Meads sententiously. He put up a barrage of veal 
in the forefront of his mouth—he had no back teeth, 


62 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

but managed to penetrate it with an opaque rumble of 
sound. “Besides we had a good day to-day—done 
a lot of business. Pass the stout-” 

“Pm glad to hear it,” replied Mrs. Meads. “It’s 
about time things began to improve, considerin’ what 
we’ve been through. Mrs. Wonnicott was wearin’ 
her biscuit-coloured taffeta with a new lace yoke. 
She looked smart, but a bit stiff for the Welfare to 
my way of thinkin’.” 

“Ah!” came rumbling through the veal. 

“Oh, and did I tell you Mrs. Mounthead was 
there, too ? She was wearing her starched ninon—no 
end of a swell she looked.” 

Mr. Meads’s eyes lighted with a definite interest at 
last. Mrs. Mounthead was the wife of James 
Mounthead, the proprietor of that handsome hos¬ 
telry, “The Die is Cast.” When his long day’s 
work was over Mr. Meads would not infrequently 
pop into “The Die is Cast” for an hour or so before 
closing time and have a long chat with Mr. James 
Mounthead. He swallowed half a glass of stout at a 
gulp, and helped himself liberally to the pickled 
walnuts which the maid had just brought in. Eyeing 
the walnuts thoughtfully, he said: 

“Oh, so she’s got into it, too, has she?” 

“Yes, she’s really quite a pleasant body. She 
told me coming down the street that her husband 
has just bought Bolder’s farm over at Pondhurst. 
He’s setting up his son there who’s marrying Kate 
Steyning. Jier people have got a bit of money, too, 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 63 

so they’ll be all right. By the way, we haven’t heard 
from Charlie for nearly three weeks.” 

Mr. Meads sighed. Why were women always like 
that? There was Edie. He was trying to tell her 
that things were improving, going well in fact. The 
shed for petrol and motor accessories was nearly 
finished; the cheap clothing department was in full 
swing; he had indulged in pickled walnuts for supper 
(her supper, too); and there she must needs talk 
about—Charlie! Everybody in the neighbourhood 
knew that their son Charlie was up in London, and 
not doing himself or anybody else any good. And 
almost in the same breath she must needs talk about 
old Mounthead’s son. Everyone knew that young 
Mounthead was a promising, industrious fellow. Oh! 
and so James had bought him Bolder’s farm, had he? 
That cost a pretty penny, he knew. Just bought a 
farm, had he? Not put the money into his business; 
just bought it in the way that he, Sam Meads, might 
buy a gramophone, or an umbrella. Psaugh! 

“I don’t want no tart,” he said, on observing Edie 
begin to carve it. 

“No tart! ” she exclaimed. “ Why, what’s wrong ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Don’t feel like 
it—working too hard—bit flatulent. I’ll go out for a 
stroll after supper.” 

An hour later he was leaning against the bar of 
“The Die is Cast,” drinking gin and water, and 
listening to Mr. Mounthead discourse on dogs. The 
bar of “The Die is Cast” was a self-constituted 


64 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

village club. Other cronies drifted in. They were 
all friends of both Mr. Meads and Mr. Mounthead. 
Mrs. Mounthead seldom appeared in the bar, but 
there was a potman and a barmaid named Florrie; 
and somewhere in the rear a cook, two housemaids, a 
scullerymaid, a boy for knives and boots, and an 
ostler. Mr. Mounthead had a victoria and a gover¬ 
ness car, as well as a van for business purposes, a 
brown mare and a pony. He also had his own farm 
well stocked with pigs, cattle, and poultry. While 
taking his guests’ money in a sleepy leisurely way, 
he regaled them with the rich fruits of his opinions 
and experiences. Later on he dropped casually that 
he was engaging an overseer at four hundred a year 
to take his son’s place. And Mr. Meads glanced 
round the bar and noted the shining glass and pew¬ 
ter, the polished mahogany, the little pink and green 
glasses winking at him insolently. 

“He doesn’t know what work is either,” suddenly 
occurred to him. Mr. Mounthead’s work consisted 
mostly in a little bookkeeping, and in ordering people 
about. He only served in the shop as a kind of social 
relaxation. If he, Sam Meads, didn’t serve in his 
shop himself all day from early morning till late 
evening, goodness knows what would happen to the 
business. Besides—the pettiness of it all! Little bits 
of cheese, penny tins of mustard, string, weighing out 
sugar and biscuits, cutting bacon, measuring off 
ribbons and calico, and flannelette. People gossip¬ 
ing all day, and running up little accounts it was 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 65 

always hard to collect. But here—oh, the snappy 
quick profit. Everybody paying on the nail, served 
in a second, and what a profit! Enough to buy a 
farm for a son as though it was—an umbrella. 
Walking home, a little dejectedly, later on, he struck 
the road with his stick, and muttered: 

“Damn that man!” 


v 

Mrs. James Mounthead was rather pleased with 
her starched ninon. She leant back luxuriously in 
the easy chair, yawned, and pressed her hands along 
the sides of her well-fitting skirt. Gilt bangles 
round her wrists rattled pleasantly during this 
performance. A paste star glittered on her ample 
bosom. She heard James moving ponderously on 
the landing below; the bar had closed. He came 
puffily up the stairs and opened the door. 

“A nightcap, queenie?” he wheezed through the 
creaking machinery of his respiratory organs. 

Mrs. Mounthead smiled brightly. “I think I 
will to-night, Jim.” 

He went to a cabinet and poured out two mixed 
drinks. He handed his wife one, and raising the 
other to his lips, said: 

“Well, here's to the boy!” 

“Here’s to James the Second!” she replied, and 
drank deeply. Her eyes sparkled. Mrs. Mounthead 
was excited. The bangles clattered against the glass 
as she set it down. 


66 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


“Come and give me a kiss, old dear, ,, she said, 
leaning back. 

Without making any great show of enthusiasm, 
James did as he was bidden. He, too, was a little 
excited, but his excitement was less amorous than 
commercial. He had paid nearly twelve hun¬ 
dred pounds less for Bolder’s farm than he had 
expected. The news of his purchase was all over 
the neighbourhood. It had impressed everyone. 
People looked at him differently. He was becoming 
a big man, the big man in those parts. He could 
buy another farm to-morrow, and it wouldn’t break 
him. And the boy—the boy was a good boy; he 
would do well, too. 

A little drink easily affected Mrs. Mounthead. 
She became garrulous. 

“I had a good time at the Welfare, though some of 
the old cats didn’t like me, I know. Ha, ha, ha, 
what do I care? We could buy the whole lot up if 
we wanted to, except perhaps the Wonnicotts. Mine 
was the only frock worth a tinker’s cuss. Lord! 
You should have seen old Mrs. Meads! Looked like 
a washerwoman on a Sunday. The vicar was ever 
so nice. He called me madam, and said he ’oped I 
often come. I gave a fiver to the fund. Ha, ha, ha, 
I didn’t tell ’em that I made it backing ‘Ringcross’ 
for the Nunhead Stakes yesterday! They’d have 
died.” 

During this verbal explosion, James Mounthead 
thoughtfully regarded his glass. And he thought to 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 67 

himself: “Um. It’s a pity Queenie gives herself 
away sometimes.” He didn’t particularly want to 
hear about the Welfare. He wanted to talk about 
“James the Second” and the plans for the future. 
He wanted to indulge in the luxury of talking about 
their success, but he didn’t want to boast about 
wealth in quite that way. He had queer ambitions 
not unconnected with the land he lived on. He had 
not always been in the licensing trade. His father 
had been a small landed proprietor and a stock 
breeder; a man of stern, unrelenting principles. 
From his father he, James Mounthead, had inherited 
a kind of reverence for the ordered development of 
land and cattle, an innate respect for the sanctity of 
tradition, caste, property and fair dealing. His wife 
had always been in the licensing trade. She was the 
daughter of a publican at Pondhurst. As a girl she 
had served in the bar. All her relations were licens¬ 
ing people. When she had a little to drink—she was 
apt to display her worst side, to give herself away. 
James sighed. 

“Did Mrs. Wonnicott say anything about her 
husband?” he asked, to change the subject. 

“You bet she did. Tried to put it across us— 
when I told her about us buying Bolder’s farm—said 
her old man had thought of bidding for it, but he 
knew it was poor in root crops and the soil was no 
good for corn, and that Sturge had neglected the 
place too long. The old cat! I said: ‘Yes, and 
p’raps it wouldn’t be convenient to pay for it just 


68 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


now, after ’aving bought a lawn mower!’ Ha, ha, 
ha. He, he, he. O my!” 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” mumbled Mr. 
Mounthead, who knew, however, that anything was 
better than one of Queenie’s violent reactions to 
quarrelsomeness. “Come on, let’s go and turn in, 
old girl.” 

An hour later, James Mounthead was tossing 
restlessly between the sheets. Queenie’s reference 
to the Wonnicotts had upset him. He could read 
between what she had said sufficiently to envisage a 
scene, which he himself deplored. Queenie, of 
course, had given herself away again to Mrs. Wonni- 
cott. He knew that both the Wonnicotts despised 
her, and through her, him. He had probably as 
much money as Lewis Wonnicott, if not more. He 
certainly had a more fluid and accumulative way of 
making it, but there the matter stopped. Wonni¬ 
cott was a gentleman; his wife a lady. He, James, 
might have been as much a gentleman as Wonnicott 
if—circumstances had been different. Queenie could 
never be a lady in the sense that Mrs. Wonnicott was 
a lady. Wonnicott led the kind of life he would like 
to live—a gentleman farmer, with hunters, a little 
house property, and some sound vested interests; a 
man with a great knowledge of land, horses, finance, 
and politics. 

He loved Queenie in a queer enduring kind of way. 
She had been loyal to him, and she satisfied most of 
his needs. She loved him, but he knew that he 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 69 

could never attain the goal of his vague ambitions, 
with her clinging to his heels. He thought of Lewis 
Wonnicott sleeping in his white panelled bedroom 
with chintz curtains and old furniture, and his wife 
in the adjoining room, where the bay window looked 
out on to the downs; and the heart of James became 
bitter with envy. 

VI 

“I don’t think I shall attend those Welfare meet¬ 
ings any more,” remarked Mrs. Lewis Wonnicott 
with a slight drawl. She gathered up her letters 
from the breakfast table and walked to the window. 

In the garden below, Leach, the gardener, was 
experimenting with a new mower on the well-clipped 
lawns. The ramblers on the pergola were at their 
best. Her husband in a broad check suit and a 
white stock, looked up from The Times and said: 

“Oh, how is that, my dear?” 

“They are getting such awful people in. That 
dreadful woman, the wife of Mounthead, the publi¬ 
can, has joined.” 

“Old Mounthead’s all right—not a bad sort. He 
knows a gelding from a blood mare.” 

“That may be, but his wife is the limit. I hap¬ 
pened to say something about the new mower, and 
she was simply rude. An awful vulgar person, wears 
spangles, and boasts about the money her husband 
makes out of selling whisky.” 

“By gad! I bet he does, too. I wouldn’t mind 


70 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

having a bit in his pub. Do you see Canadian 
Pacifies are still stagnant?” 

“Lewis, I sometimes wish you wouldn’t be so 
material. You think about nothing but money.” 

“Oh, come, my dear, I’m interested in a crowd of 
other things—things which I don’t make money out 
of, too.” 

“For instance?” 

“The land, the people who work on it, horses, 
cattle, game, the best way to do things for every¬ 
body. Besides, ain’t I interested in the children? 
The two girls’ careers at Bedales? Young Ralph at 
Rugby and going up to Cambridge next year?” 

“You know they’re there, but how much interest 
you take, I couldn’t say.” 

“What is it you want me to do, my dear?” 

“I think you might bestir yourself to get amongst 
better people. The girls will be leaving school soon 
and coming home. We know no one, no one at all 
in the neighbourhood.” 

“No one at all! Jeminy! Why, we know every¬ 
one!” 

“You spend all your time among horse-breeders 
and cattle-dealers, and people like Mounthead, and 
occasionally call on the Vicar, but who is there of any 
importance that we know?” 

“ Lord! What do you want ? Do you want me to 
go and call at Crawshay Park, and ask Sir Septimus 
and Lady Letter to come and make up a four at 
bridge?” 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 71 

“Don’t be absurd! You know quite well that the 
Letters are entirely inaccessible. He’s not only an 
M.P. and owner of half the newspapers in the country, 
but a millionaire. They entertain house parties of 
ministers and dukes, and even royalty. They can af¬ 
ford to ignore even the county people themselves. But 
there are others. We don’t even know the county.” 

“Who, for instance?” 

“Well, the Burnabys. You met St. John Burn¬ 
aby at the Constitutional Club two or three times 
and yet you have never attempted to follow it up. 
They’re very nice people and neighbours. And they 
have three boys all in the twenties, and the girl 
Sheila—she’s just a year younger than Ralph.” 

“My word! Who’s being material now?” 

“It isn’t material, it’s just—thinking of the 
children.” 

“Women are wonderful,” muttered Lewis Wonni- 
cott into his white stock, without raising his head. 
Mrs. Wonnicott swept to the door. Her thin lips 
were drawn in a firm straight line. Her refined hard 
little face appeared pinched and petulant. With her 
hand on the door-handle she said acidly: 

“If you can spare half an hour from your grooms 
and pigs, I think you might at least do this to please 
me—call on Mrs. Burnaby to-day.” 

And she went out of the room, shutting the door 
crisply. 

“Oh, Jiminy-Piminy!” muttered Mr. Wonnicott. 
“ Jiminy-Piminy!” 


72 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

He stood up and shook himself. Then with feline 
intentness he walked quickly to the French window, 
and opening it walked down the steps into the gar¬ 
den. All the way to the sunk rose-garden he kept 
repeating, “Jiminy-Piminy!” 

Once among the rose-bushes he lighted his pipe. 
(His wife objected to smoking in the house.) He 
blew clouds of tobacco smoke amongst imaginary 
green-fly. Occasionally he would glance furtively 
out at the view across the downs. Half buried 
amongst the elms near Basted Old Church he could 
just see the five red gables of the Burnabys’s 
capacious mansion. 

“I can’t do it,” he thought, “I can’t do it, and I 
shall have to do it.” 

It was perfectly true he had been introduced to 
St. John Burnaby and had spoken to him once or 
twice. It was also true that Burnaby had never 
given any evidence of wishing to follow up the 
acquaintanceship. Bit of a swell, Burnaby, con¬ 
nected with all sorts of people, member of half a 
dozen clubs, didn’t race but went in for golf, and had 
a shooting box in Scotland. Some said he had 
political ambitions, and meant to try for Parliament 
at the next election. He didn’t racket round in a 
check suit and a white stock and mix with grooms 
and farm hands; he kept up the flair of the gentleman, 
the big man, even in the country. He had two cars, 
and three acres of conservatory, and peacocks, and a 
son in the diplomatic service, a daughter married 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 73 

to a bishop. His wife, too, came of a poor but 
aristocratic family. Over at the “Five Gables” 
they kept nine gardeners and twenty odd servants. 
Everything was done tip-top. 

Lewis Wonnicott turned and regarded his one old 
man gardener, trying the new mower, which Mrs. 
Mounthead had been so rude about to Dorothy. 
Poor Dorothy! She was touchy, that’s what it was. 
Of course she did think of the children—no getting 
away from it. She was ambitious more for them 
than for herself or himself. She had given up being 
ambitious for him. He knew that she looked upon 
him as a slacker, a kind of cabbage. Well, perhaps 
he had been. He hadn’t accomplished all he ought 
to. He had loved the land, the feel of horse-flesh, the 
smell of wet earth when the morning dews were on 
it. He had been a failure . . . a failure. He was 

not up to county people. He was unworthy of his 
dear wife’s ambitions. Jiminy-Piminy! It would be 
a squeeze to send Ralph up to Cambridge next year! 

He looked across the valley at the five red gables 
among the elms, and sighed. 

“Lucky devil!” he murmured. “Damn it all! 
I suppose I must go.” 


VII 

“You don’t seem to realize the importance of it,” 
said Gwendolen St. John Burnaby as her husband 
leant forward on his seat on the terrace, and tickled 
the ear of Jinks, the Airedale. “A career in the 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


74 

diplomatic service without influence is about as likely 
to be a success as a—as a performance on a violin 
behind a sound-proof curtain. There's Lai, wasting 
his—his talents and genius at that wretched little 
embassy at Oporto, and all you’ve got to do is to 
drive three miles to Crawshay Park and put the 
matter before Sir Septimus.” 

“These things always seem so simple to women,” 
answered Sir John, a little peevishly. 

“Well, isn’t it true? Do you deny that he has 
the power?” 

“Of course he has power, my dear, but you may 
not realize the kind of life a man like that lives. 
Every minute of the day is filled up, all kinds of 
important things crowding each other out. He’s 
always been friendly enough to me, and yet every 
time I meet him I have an idea he has forgotten who 
I am. He deals in movements in which men are only 
pawns. If I told him about Lai he would say yes, 
he would do what he could—make a note of it, and 
forget about it directly I turned my back.” 

Mrs. St. John Burnaby stamped her elegant Louis 
heels. 

“Is nothing ever worth trying?” 

“Don’t be foolish, Gwen, haven’t I tried? Haven’t 
I ambition?” 

“For yourself, yes. I am thinking of Lai.” 

“Women always think of their sons before their 
husbands. He knows I’ve backed his party for all 
I’m worth. He knows I’m standing for the con- 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 75 

stituency next time. When I get elected will be the 
moment. I shall then have a tiny atom of power. 
For a man without even a vote in Parliament do you 
think Letter is going to waste his time?” 

“Obstinate!” muttered Mrs. Burnaby with me¬ 
tallic clearness. The little lines round the eyes and 
mouth of a face that had once been beautiful became 
accentuated in the clear sunlight. The constant 
stress of ambitious desires had quickened her vi¬ 
tality, but in the process had aged her body before its 
time. She knew that her husband was ambitious, 
too, but there was always just that little something he 
lacked in the great moments, just that little special 
effort that might have landed him among the gods— 
or in the House of Lords. He had been successful 
enough in a way. He had made money—a hundred 
thousand or so—in brokerage and dealing indirectly 
in various manufactured commodities; but he had 
not even attained a knighthood or a seat in Parlia¬ 
ment. His heavy dark face betokened power and 
courage, but not vision. He was indeed as she had 
said—obstinate. In minnow circles he might appear 
a triton, but living within the same county as Sir 
Septimus Letter—Bah! 

About to leave him, her movement was arrested 
by the approach of a butler followed by a gentleman 
in a check suit and a white stock, looking self- 
conscious. 

Mrs. St. John Burnaby raised her lorgnette. 
“One of these local people,” she reflected. 


76 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

On being announced the gentleman in the check 
suit exclaimed rapidly: 

“Excuse the liberty I take—neighbours, don’t you 
know. Remember me at the Constitutional, Mr. 
Burnaby? Thought I would drop in and pay my 
respects.” 

St. John Burnaby nodded. 

“Oh, yes, yes, quite. I remember, Mr.—er— 
Mr.-” 

“Wonnicott.” 

“Oh yes, of course. How do you do? My wife— 
Mr. Wonnicott.” 

The wife and the Wonnicott bowed to each other, 
and there was an uncomfortable pause. At last Mr. 
Wonnicott managed to say: 

“We live over at Wimpstone, just across the 
valley—my wife, the girls are at school, boy’s up at 
Rugby.” 

“Oh yes—really?” This was Mrs. Burnaby, who 
was thinking to herself: 

“The man looks like a dog fancier.” 

“Very good school,” said St. John Burnaby. 
“Hot to-day, isn’t it!” 

“Yes, it’s exceedingly warm.” 

“Do you golf?” 

“No, I don’t golf. I ride a bit.” 

“You must excuse me,” said Mrs. St. John Burn¬ 
aby, “I have got to get a trunk call to London.” 

She fluttered away across the terrace, and into the 
house. Mr. Wonnicott chatted away for several 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 77 

minutes, but St. John Burnaby was preoccupied and 
monosyllabic. The visitor was relieved to rescue his 
hat at last and make his escape. Walking down the 
drive he thought: 

“It’s no good. He dislikes me.” 

As a matter of fact St. John Burnaby was not 
thinking about him at all. He was thinking of Sir 
Septimus Letter, the big man, the power he would 
have liked to have been. He ground his teeth and 
clenched his fists: 

“Damn it!” he muttered, “I will not appeal for 
young Lai. Let him fight his own battles.” 

VIII 

On a certain day that summer when the sun was 
at its highest in the heavens, Sir Septimus Letter 
stood by the bureau in his cool library and conversed 
with his private secretary. 

Sir Septimus was wearing what appeared to be a 
ready-made navy serge suit and a low collar. His 
hands were thrust into his trouser pockets. The 
sallow face was heavily marked, the strangely rest¬ 
less eyes peered searchingly beneath dark brows 
which almost met in one continuous line. The chin 
was finely modelled, but not too strong. It was not 
indeed what is usually known as a strong face. It 
had power, but of the kind which has been mellowed 
by the friction of every human experience. It had 
alert intelligence, a penetrating absorption, above all 
things it indicated vision. The speech and the move- 


78 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

ments were incisive; the short wiry body a compact 
tissue of nervous energy. He listened with the 
watchful intensity of a dog at a rabbit-hole. Through 
the door at the end of the room could be heard the 
distant click of many typewriters. 

The secretary was saying: 

“The third reading of the Nationalization of 
Paper Industries Bill comes on at five-thirty, sir. 
Boneham will be up, and I do not think you will be 
called till seven. You will, of course, however, wish 
to hear what he has to say.” 

“I know what he’ll say. You can cut that out, 
Roberts. Get Libby to give me a precis at six 
forty-five.” 

“Very good, sir. Then there will be time after 
the Associated News Service Board at four to see the 
minister with regard to this question of packing 
meetings in East Riding. Lord Lampreys said he 
would be pleased if I could fix an appointment. He 
has some information.” 

“Right. What line are Jennins and Castwell 
taking over this ?” 

“They’re trying to side-track the issue. They 
have every un-associated newspaper in the North 
against you.” 

“H’m, h’m. Well, we’ve fought them before.” 

“Yes, sir. The pressure is going to be greater this 
time, but everyone has confidence you will get them 
down.” 

The little man’s eyes sparkled. “Roberts, get 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 79 

through on the private wire to—Lambe; no, get 
through to all of them, and make it quite clear. 
This is not to be a party question. They’re to work 
the unctious rectitude stuff, you know—liberty of the 
subject and so on.” 

“Very good, sir. The car comes at one-fifteen. 
You are lunching with Cranmer at Shorn Towers, the 
Canadian paper interests will be strongly represented 
there. I will be at Whitehall Court at three with 
the despatches. It would be advisable, if possible, 
to get Loeb of the finance committee. Oh, by the 
way, sir, I had to advise you from Loeb. They have 
received a cabled report of the expert’s opinion from 
Labrador. There are two distinct seams of coal on 
that land you bought in ’07. A syndicate from 
Buffalo have made an offer. They offer a million 
and a quarter dollars down.” 

What did we pay?” 

“One hundred and twenty thousand.” 

“Don’t sell.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“Have you seen my wife, lately?” 

“I have not seen Lady Letter for some days, sir. 
I believe she is at Harrogate.” 

The little man sighed, and drew out a cigarette 
case, opened it and offered one to Roberts, who 
accepted it with an elegant gesture. Then he 
snapped it to, and replaced it in his pocket. 

“Damn it, Roberts, Reeves says I mustn’t 
smoke.” 


80 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“Oh, dear!—only a temporary disability I trust, 
sir.” 

“Everything is temporary, Roberts.” 

With his hands still in his pockets, he walked 
abstractedly out of the room. A little ormolu 
clock in the outer corridor indicated twenty minutes 
to one. The car was due at one-fifteen. Thirty- 
five minutes: oh, to escape for only that brief period! 
Through the glass doors he could see his sister, talking 
to two men in golfing clothes, some of the house 
party. The house party was a perpetual condition 
at Crawshay. He turned sharply to the right, and 
went through a corridor leading out to the rear of the 
garage. He hurried along and escaped to a path 
between two tomato houses. In a few moments he 
was lost to sight. He passed through a shrubbery, 
and came to a clearing. Without slackening his 
pace, he walked across it, and got amongst some 
trees. The trees of Crawshay Park—his trees! . . . 
He looked up at the towering oaks and elms. Were 
they his trees—because he had bought them? They 
were there years before he was born. They would 
be there years after his death. He was only passing 
through them—a fugitive. “Everything is tempo¬ 
rary, Roberts-” Yes, even life itself. Jennins 

and Castwell! Of course they wanted to get him 
down! Were they the only ones ? Does one struggle 
to the top without hurting others to get there? Does 
one get to the top without making enemies? Does 
one get to the top without suffering, and bitterness, 


THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 81 

and remorse? The park sloped down to a low stone 
wall, with an opening where one could obtain a 
glorious view across the weald of Sussex. The white 
ribbon of a road stretched away into infinity. 

As he stood there, he saw a dark swarthy figure 
clamber down a bank, and stand hesitating in the 
middle of the road. He was a tramp with a stubbly 
red beard nearly concealing his face, and a filthy 
black green suit. In his hand he carried a red 
handkerchief containing his worldly belongings—a 
door-knob, a portion of a foot-rule, a tin mug stolen 
from a workhouse, some date stones, an onion, the 
shutter of a camera, and two empty match boxes. 

Sir Septimus did not know this fact; he merely 
regarded the tramp as an abstraction. He observed 
him hesitate, exchange a word with a field labourer, 
look up at the sky, hunch his shoulders, and sud¬ 
denly set out with long swinging strides down the 
white road. Whither? There stirred within the 
breast of the millionaire a curious wistful longing. 
Oh, to be free! To be free! To walk across those 
hills without a care, without a responsibility. The 
figure, with its easy gait, fascinated him. The dark 
form became smaller and smaller, swallowed up in the 
immensity of nature. With a groan, Sir Septimus 
Letter buried his face in his hands and murmured: 

“Lucky devil! . . . lucky devil! O God! 

If I could die. . . ” 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 


H IS round fat little face appeared seraphic in 
sleep. If only the hair were not graying at 
the temples and getting very, very thin on 
top, and the lines about the eyes and mouth becom¬ 
ing rather too accentuated, it might have been the 
head of one of Donatello’s bambini. It was not until 
Mrs. Lamb, his ancient housekeeper, bustled into 
the room with a can and said: “Your water, Mr. 
Basingstoke”—the intrusion causing him to open 
his eyes—that it became apparent that he was a 
man past middle-age. His eyes were very large— 
“goose-gog eyes” the children called them. As 
elderly people will, it took him some few moments to 
focus his mentality. A child will wake up, and carry 
on from the exact instant it went to sleep; but it takes 
a middle-aged man or woman a moment or so to 
realize where they are, what day in the week it is, 
what happened yesterday, what is going to happen 
to-day, whether they are happy or not. Certainly 
with regard to the latter query there is always a sub¬ 
conscious pressure which warns them. Almost 
before they have decided which day in the week it is, 
a voice is whispering: “Something occurred yester¬ 
day to make you unhappy,” or “Things are going 
82 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 83 

well. You are happy just now,” and then the true 
realization of their affairs, and loves, and passions 
unfolds itself. They continue yesterday’s story. 

As to James Jasper Basingstoke, it was not his 
business to indulge in the slightest apprehension with 
regard to his condition of happiness or unhappiness. 
He was a funny man. It was his profession, his 
mission, his natural gift. From early morning, 
when his housekeeper awakened him, till, playing 
with the children—all the children adored him— 
practising, interviewing managers and costumiers, 
dropping into the club and exchanging stories with 
some of the other “dear old boys,” right on until he 
had finished his second show at night it was his 
mission to leave behind him a long trail of smiles and 
laughter. Consequently, he merely sat up in bed, 
blinked and called out: 

“I am deeply indebted to your Lambship.” 

“Nibby’s got hiccups,” replied that lady, who was 
not unused to this term of address. Nibby was Mrs. 
Lamb’s grandson. His real name was Percy Alex¬ 
ander. The granddaughter’s name was Violetta 
Gladys, and she was known as Tibby. They lived 
next door. These names, of course, had been in¬ 
vented by the Funny Man, who lived in a world of 
make-believe, where no one at all was known by their 
real name. He himself was known in the theatrical 
profession as “Willy Nilly.” 

“I am distressed to hear that,” exclaimed Willy 
Nilly. “Hiccoughs at nine o’clock in the morning! 


84 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

You don’t say so! I always looked upon it as a 
nocturnal disease. The result of too many hie, haec, 
hock cups.” 

“You must have your fun, Mr. Basingstoke, but 
the pore little feller has been very bad ever since he 
woke up.” 

Willy Nilly leapt out of bed and rolled across to the 
chest of drawers. He there produced a bottle con¬ 
taining little white capsules, two of which he handed 
to Mrs. Lamb. 

“Crunch these up and swallow with a little milk, 
then lie on his back and think of emerald green 
parrots flying above a dark forest, where monkeys 
are hanging by their tails. In our profession the 
distress of hiccoughs is quite prevalent and we al¬ 
ways cure it in this way. A man who can’t conquer 
hiccoughs can never expect to top the bill. Now 
tell Master Nibby that, dear lady.” 

Mrs. Lamb looked at the white capsules interest¬ 
ingly. 

“Do you really mean that, Mr. Basingstoke?” 

The little fat man struck a dramatic situa¬ 
tion. 

“Did you ever find me not a man of my word, 
Lady Lamb?” 

“You are a one,” replied the housekeeper, and 
retired, holding the capsules carefully balanced in 
the centre of her right palm, as though they con¬ 
tained some secret charm which she was fearful of 
dispelling by her contact. 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 85 

The little fat man thrust out his arms in the simili¬ 
tude of some long-forgotten clumsy exercise. Then 
he regarded himself in the mirror. 

“Not too thumbs up, old boy, not too thumbs up. 
It’s going, you know. All the Apollo beauty—Oh, 
you little depraved ruffian, go and hold your head 
under the tap.” 

No, no, it was not the business of Willy Nilly to 
be depressed by these reflections either in the mirror 
or upon the mind. He seized the strop suspended 
from a hook on the architrave of the window and 
began to flash his razor backward and forward 
whilst he sang: 

“Oh, what care I for a new feather bed, 

And a sheet turned down so bravely—O.” 

The raggle-taggle gypsies accompanied him inter¬ 
mittently throughout the whole operation of shaving, 
including the slight cut just beneath the lobe of his 
left ear. The business of washing and dressing was 
no perfunctory performance with the Funny Man. 
He had a personality to sustain. Moreover, among 
the programme of activities for the day included 
attendance at a wedding. There is nothing at which 
a funny man can be so really funny as at a wedding. 
One funny man at least is almost essential for the 
success of this time-honoured ritual. And this was 
a very, very special wedding; the wedding of his two 
dearest and greatest friends, Katie Easebrook, the 
pretty comedienne, and Charlie Derrick, that most 


86 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

brilliant writer of ballads. A swell affair it was to be 
in Clapham Parish Church, with afterward a re¬ 
ception at the Hautboy Hotel—everything to be 
done “in the best slap-up style, old boy.” 

No wonder Willy Nilly took an unconscionable 
time folding his voluminous black stock, adorned 
with the heavy gold pin, removing the bold check 
trousers from withunder the mattress, tugging at 
the crisp white waistcoat till it adapted itself indul¬ 
gently to the curves of his figure, and hesitating for 
fully five minutes between the claims of seven differ¬ 
ent kinds of kid gloves. A man who tops the bill 
at even a suburban music hall cannot afford to 
neglect these things. It was fully three quarters of 
an hour before he presented himself in the dining¬ 
room below. Mrs. Lamb appeared automatically 
with the teapot and his one boiled egg. 

“You’d hardly believe it,” she said, “but Nibby 
took them white pills and his hiccups is abated.” 

“Ah! What did you expect, my good woman? 
Was Willy Nilly likely to deceive an innocent child? 
Did he think of emerald green parrots and a dark 
forest ?” 

“I told him what you said, Mr. Basingstoke. 
Here’s the letters and the newspaper.” 

The Funny Man’s correspondence was always 
rather extensive, consisting for the most part of 
letters from unknown people commencing: “Dear 
Sir,—I wrote the enclosed words for a comic song 
last Sunday afternoon. I should think set to music 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 87 

you would make them very funny-” or “Dear 

Sir,—I had a good idea for a funny stunt for you. 
Why not sing a song dressed up as a curate called: 
‘The higher I aspire I espy her,’ and every time you 
come to the word higher, you trip up over a piece of 
orange peel. I leave it to you about payment for 
this idea, but I may say I am in straitened circum¬ 
stances, and my wife is expecting another next 
March.” 

There was a certain surprising orderliness about 
the Funny Man’s methods. Receipts were filed,' 
accounts kept together and paid fairly regularly, 
suggestions and ideas were carefully considered, 
begging letters placed together, with a sigh, “in case 
anything could be done a little later on, old boy.” 
Occasionally would come a chatty letter from some 
old friend “on the road,” or from his married sister 
in Yorkshire. But for the most part his corre¬ 
spondence was not of an intimate nature. 

His newspaper this morning remained unopened. 
The contemplation of his own programme for the 
day was too absorbing to fritter away nervous energy 
on public affairs. Whilst cracking the egg, he 
visualized his time-table. At ten o’clock, Chris 
Read was coming to try over new songs and stunts. 
At eleven-fifteen, he had an appointment with Albus, 
the costumier in Long Acre, to set the stamp of his 
approval upon the wig and nose for his new song: 
“I’m one of the Goo-goo boys.” Kate and Charlie’s 
was at twelve-thirty and the wedding breakfast at 



88 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


“the Hautboy” at one-forty-five. In the meantime, 
he must write two letters and manage to call on old 
Mrs. Labbory, his former landlady, who was very, 
very ill. Poor old soul! She'd been a brick to him 
in the old days, when he was sometimes “out” for 
seven months in the year, out and penniless. It was 
only fair now that he should help her a bit with the 
rent, and see that she had everything she needed. 

Willy Nilly's life had been passed through an 
avenue of landladies, but the position of Mrs. Lab¬ 
bory was unique. He had been with her fifteen 
years and she was intimate with all his intimates. 

At three-forty-five was a rehearsal with the Rail- 
ham Empire orchestra. He must get that gag right 
where he bluffs the trombone player in his song: 
“Oh, my in-laws, my in-laws, why don't you leave 
me be.” Perhaps a cup of tea somewhere, and then 
an appointment at five-fifteen with Welsh, to arrange 
terms about the renewal of contract. Knotty and 
difficult problems—contracts. Everyone trying to 
do you down—must have a clear head at five-fifteen. 
If there's time, perhaps pop into the club for half an 
hour, exchange stories with Jimmy Landish, or old 
Blakeney. A chop at six-thirty—giving him an 
hour before making-up for the first house. On at 
eight-twenty. Three songs and an encore—mustn't 
forget to speak to Hignet about that spotlight, the 
operator must have been drunk last night. Between 
shows interview a local pressman, and a young man 
who “wants to go on the stage, but has had no 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 89 

experience.” Dash round for a sandwich and a re¬ 
fresher. On again at ten-twenty-five. Same three 
songs, same encore, same bluff on the trombone 
player. Ten-fifty, all clear. Clean up and escape 
from the theatre if possible. 

A last nightcap at the club, perhaps? Oh, but 
Bird Craft wanted him to toddle along to his rooms 
and hear a new song he had just acquired, “a real 
winner,” Bird had said it was, about “The girl and 
the empty pram.” Must stand by an old pal. 
Sometime during the day he must send two suits to 
be cleaned, and order some new underlinen. A 
beastly boring business, ordering vests and pants. 
He knew nothing about the qualities of materials— 
hosiers surely did him over that. Really a woman’s 
business, women knew about these things. Mrs. 
Lamb! No, not exactly Mrs. Lamb. He couldn’t 
ask Mrs. Lamb to go and buy him vests and pants. 
A woman’s business, a woman- 

Heigho! Nearly ten o’clock already. Chris Read 
might arrive any minute. The Funny Man dashed 
downstairs and ran into the house next door. Tibby 
had already gone off to school, but Nibby had 
escaped, because at the moment of departure his 
attack of hiccoughs had reached its apotheosis. 
Now he was in trouble because it had left off, and his 
mother now declared he had been pretending. It 
took the Funny Man fifteen minutes to calm this 
family trouble. Nibby, putting it on! Nibby, 
playing the wag! Oh, come! Fie and for shame! 


90 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

Besides did Nibby’s mother think that he, Dr. Willy 
Nilly, the eminent specialist of Harley Street, was a 
quack? Were his remedies spurious remedies? 

‘‘Did you think of emerald green parrots in a dark 
wood, Nibby?” 

“Yes.” 

“And monkeys hanging by their tails?” 

“Yes.” 

“There, you see, Mrs. Munro! It was a genuine 
case, and a genuine cure.” 

“If he really had it, Mr. Basingstoke, I don’t 
believe it was thinking about monkeys what cured 
him; it was them little white tabloids, and we thank 
you kindly.” 

“Mrs. Munro, here are two tickets for the Rail- 
ham Empire for the first house to-morrow night. 
Come, and bring your husband, and then you will 
see that there are more people cured by thinking of 
monkeys hanging by their tails than there are by 
swallowing tabloids. That is my business. I am a 
monkey hanging by its tail, and now I must be off. 
Good-bye, Nibby old boy. Why, if this isn’t a six¬ 
pence under the mat. Well, well, this is an age of 
miracles. No, you keep it, old boy. Good-bye, 
Mrs. Munro. Come round and see me after the 
show to-morrow. Toot-a-loo, my dear.” 

Chris was waiting on the doorstep, a fresh-com- 
plexioned young man inclined to corpulence. His 
face glowed with a kind of vacant geniality. 

“Well, old boy, how goes it?” 


THE FUNNY MAN'S DAY 


9i 

“I’ve got a peach this morning, Willy old boy; I 
think you’ll like it.” 

“Good boy, come on in.” 

The Funny Man’s drawing-room was comfortably 
furnished with imitation Carolian furniture, a draped 
ottoman, and an upright Collard piano. The walls 
were covered with enlarged photographs of actors 
and actresses in gold and walnut frames, the ma¬ 
jority of them were autographed and contained such 
inscriptions as: “To my dear old Willy, from yours 
devotedly, Cora.” “To Uncle Nilly, one of the best, 
Jimmy Cotswold (The Blue Girl Company, Aug. 
1899),” “To Willy Nilly, ‘my heart’s afire,’ Queenie,” 
and so on. 

“Now, let’s see what you’ve got, old boy.” 

Chris sat at the piano, and unwrapped a manu¬ 
script score. 

“I think this ought to win out, old boy,” he said. 
“It’s by Bert Shore. It’s called ‘The Desert Island.’ 
You see the point is this. You’re a bit squiffy, old 
boy. You see, red nose and battered top hat and 
your trousers turned up to the knees. You know 
how when it’s been raining on a tarred road it looks 
like water. Well, we have a set like that. It’s really 
a street island—in Piccadilly, or somewhere. You’re 
on it, and seeing all this shining water, you think 
you’re on a desert island and the lamppost’s a palm 
tree. You take off your shoes and stockings and 
there’s some good business touching the wet road 
with your bare toes. See, old boy? There’s a 


92 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

thunderin’ good tune. Listen to this—tum-te-too- 
te tum-te-tum, rum-te-too-te-tum-te-works up, you 
see to a kind of nautical air—then gets back to the 
plaintive desert stuff—rum-tum-tum-rum-te-tum. 
Then here’s the chorus. Listen to this, old boy: 

“Lost in the jungle, 

Oh, what a bungle, 

Eaten by spiders and ants. 

Where is my happy home? 

Why did they let me roam? 

Where are my Sunday pants? 

“Good, eh? What do you think? Make some¬ 
thing of it, old boy? Eh?” 

The little man’s eyes glowed with excitement. 
Oh, yes, this might assuredly be a winner. It was the 
kind of song that had made his reputation. The 
tune of the chorus was distinctly catchy, and his mind 
was already conceiving various business. 

“Let’s have a go at it, old boy,” he said. 

He leant over the other’s shoulder and began to 
sing. He threw back his head and thrust out his fat 
little stomach, his eyes rolled, and perspiration 
streamed down his face. He was really enjoying 
himself. He had just got to 

Lost in a jungle, 

Oh, what a bungle, 

Eaten by spiders and ants, 

when there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Lamb 
thrust her head in and said: “A telegram for you, 
Mr. Basingstoke.” 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 


93 

“Eh? Oh! Well—er, never mind. Yes, thank 
you, my dear, give it to me.” 

He opened the telegram absently, his mind still 
occupied with the song. When he had read it, he 
exclaimed: 

“Good God! Poor old Joe! Yes, no, there’s no 
answer, my dear. I must go out.” 

Mrs. Lamb retired. 

“Poor old Joe! Stranded, eh?” 

“What is it, old boy?” said Chris. 

“Telegram from Joe Bloom. He says: ‘Can you 
wire me tenner, very urgent, stranded at Dundee?’ 
Poor old Joe! He has no luck. He was out with 
‘The Queen of the Sea’ company. They must have 
failed. Excuse me Chris, old boy.” 

The Funny Man hurried out of the room and ran 
downstairs. He snatched up his hat and went out. 
When he got round the corner, he ran. He ran as 
fast as he could to the High Street till he came to the 
London, City and Midland Bank. He filled up a 
cheque for fifteen pounds and cashed it. Then he 
ran out of the bank and trotted puffily across the 
road to the post office. 

“I want to telegraph fifteen pounds, old girl,” he 
said to the fair-haired lady behind the wires. Filling 
up the forms took an unconscionable time, and there 
all the while was poor old Joe stranded in Dundee, 
perhaps without food! Dundee! Dundee of all 
places, a bleak unsympathetic town, hundreds of 
miles from civilization. Well, that would help him 


MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


94 

out, anyway. True, he had had to do this twice 
before for Joe, and Joe had not, so far, paid him back, 
but Joe was a notoriously unlucky devil, and he, 
Willy Nilly, topping the bill at the Railham Empire, 
couldn’t let a pal in. 

When he got back to his own drawing-room, Chris 
was stretched at full length on the sofa, smoking a 
cigarette and drinking whiskey and soda. 

‘‘Sorry to have kept you, Chris, old boy.” 

“It’s all right. I’ve just helped myself to a tot 
from the sideboard.” 

“That’s right. That’s right. Now let’s see, it’s 
a quarter to eleven. I’ll have to wash out this trial, 
old boy. I shall be late for Albus. I like that song. 
I’d like to have another go at it. Have another tot, 
Chris, old boy. I’ll join you, then I must be off.” 

But he didn’t get to Albus that morning, because 
on leaving the house he remembered that he hadn’t 
called on old Mrs. Labbory. He must just pop in 
for a few moments. It was only ten minutes’ walk 
away. He purchased a fowl and a bottle of Madeira 
and hurried to 27, Radnor Street. He found his old 
landlady propped up on the pillows, looking gaunt 
and distant, as though she were already regarding the 
manifestations of social life from a long way off and 
would never participate in them again. 

“Well, Martha, old girl, how goes it? Merry and 
bright, eh? Oh, you’re looking fine. More colour 
than last week, eh? . . . eating better, old 

girl?” 


95 


THE FUNNY MAN'S DAY 

A voice came across the years. 

“ I’m not so well, Jim. God bless you for coming.” 

“Of course I come. I come because I’m a selfish 
old rascal. I come because I want to, I know where 
I’m appreciated, eh? Ha, ha, ha, now don’t you 
think you’re getting worse. You’re getting on fine. 
We’ll soon have you about again, turning out cup¬ 
boards, hanging wallpapers. Jemimy! Do you 
remember hanging that convolvulus wallpaper in my 
bedroom in the Gosport Road, eh?” The Funny 
Man slapped his leg, and the tears rolled down his 
cheeks with laughter at the recollection of the epi¬ 
sode. 

“Do you remember how I helped you? And all 
I did was to step into a pail of size, nearly broke my 
leg, and spoilt the only pair of trousers I had! Ha, 
ha, ha! He, he, he! I had to go to bed for four 
hours while you washed them out and aired ’em. O 
dear!” 

Old Mrs. Labbory began to laugh, too, in a feeble, 
distant manner. Then she stopped and looked at 
him wistfully. 

“You going to Katie Easebrook’s wedding, Jim?” 

“Eh? Oh, yes, I’m going, old girl. I’m going 
straight on now.” 

He hadn’t meant to mention this. There’s some¬ 
thing a little crude in talking about a wedding to a 
dying woman. He paused and looked uncomfort¬ 
ably at his feet. The voice from the past reached 
him again. 


96 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“You ought to have married Katie Easebrook.” 

“Eh? What’s that? Me? Oh, no, old girl, what 
are you talking about ? Me marry Katie Easebrook ? 
Why, I wouldn’t have had the face to ask her. Not 
when there’s a good fellow like Charlie about.” 

Like some discerning oracle came the reply: 

“Charlie’s a good feller, a good-looking feller, too— 
but you would have made her a better husband, 
Jim.” 

With some curious twist of chivalry and affection 
the little man gripped the old woman’s hand and 
kissed it. 

“You’ve always thought too much of me, Martha, 
old girl.” 

“I’ve had good cause to, Jim. . . . Good¬ 

bye.” 

He walked a little unsteadily down Radnor Street. 
A pale October sun filtered through a light mist, and 
gave to the meagre front gardens a certain glamour. 
Fat spiders hung in glistening webs between the 
shrubs and Japanese anemones. Children were 
playing absorbing games with chalk and stones upon 
the pavement. Cats looked down sleepily from the 
security of narrow walls. He had to pat a little girl’s 
head and arbitrate in a dispute between two girls and 
a boy regarding the laws of a game called “Snow¬ 
ball.” 

“Life is a lovely thing,” he thought as he hurried 
on. “Poor old Martha! . . . She’s going out.” 

He was, of course, late for the service in the church. 


THE FUNNY MAN'S DAY 


97 

In some way he did not regret this. He slipped 
quietly into a seat at the back, unobserved. A 
hymn was being sung, or was it a psalm? He didn’t 
know. There was something about a church service 
he didn’t like. It disturbed him at some uncomfort¬ 
able level. Charlie was standing by the altar, look¬ 
ing self-conscious and impatient. Katie was a 
ghostly unrecognizable figure, like a fly bound up in a 
spool in a spider’s web. Thirty or forty people were 
scattered on either side of the central aisle. He 
could only see their backs. The parson began to 
drone the service, slowly enunciating the prescribed 
purposes of the married state. Willy Nilly felt a 
flush of discomfort. It somehow didn’t seem right 
that Katie should have to stand there before all 
these people and have things put to her quite so 
straight. 

“Rather detailed, old boy,” he thought. “Per¬ 
haps that’s why a bride wears a veil.” 

When it was over, he walked boldly up the aisle 
and followed a few intimates into the vestry. He 
was conscious of people indicating him with nudges 
and whispering: “Look! That’s Willy Nilly!” 

In the vestry, Katie’s mother was Sweeping, and 
Katie appeared to be weeping with one eye and 
laughing with the other. A few relatives were shak¬ 
ing hands, kissing and talking excitedly. Someone 
said: “Here’s Willy Nilly.” 

Charlie gripped his hand and whispered: 

“Come on Willie, old boy, kiss the bride.” 


98 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

The bride looked up at him with her glorious eyes, 
and held out her arms. 

“Dear old Willie ... so glad you came, old 
boy.” 

He kissed the bride all right, and held her from him. 

“God bless you, dear old girl. God bless you. 
May you . . . may all your dreams come true, 

old girl.” 

In most weddings there is a streak of pathos, but in 
theatrical weddings the note is predominant. It 
is as though the lookers on realize that these people 
whose life is passed in make-believe are bound to 
burn their fingers when they begin to touch reality. 
Perhaps their reactions are too violent to be bound 
within the four walls of a contract. 

Katie’s wedding certainly contained a large ele¬ 
ment of sadness. 

“She looks so sweet and fragile. I hope he’ll he 
good to her,” women whispered. 

The lunch at the Hautboy Hotel was hilarious to 
an almost artificial degree. A great deal of cham¬ 
pagne was drunk, and toasts were prolific. It was 
here that Willy Nilly came in. The Funny Man 
excelled himself. He was among the people who 
knew him and loved him. He made goo-goo eyes 
at the bridesmaids, he told stories, he imitated all 
the denisons of a farmyard, he gave a mock conjuring 
display, and his speech in proposing the health of the 
bride’s father and mother was the hit of the after¬ 
noon. (He was not allowed the principal toast as 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 99 

that had been allocated to Charlie’s father, who was 
a stockbroker.) To the waiter who hovered behind 
chairs with napkined magnums of champagne, he 
kept on saying: 

“Not too much, old boy. I’ve a rehearsal at 
three-forty.” 

Nevertheless, he drained his glass every time it 
was filled. The craving to be funny exceeded every 
other craving. Willy Nilly had knocked about the 
world in every kind of company. It took a lot to go 
to his head. It was almost impossible to make him 
drunk. When at three o’clock it was time for the 
bride and bridegroom to depart he was not by any 
means drunk, certainly not so drunk as Charlie, but 
he was in a slightly detached comatose state of mind. 
He kissed the bride once more, and to Charlie he said: 

“God bless you, old boy. Be good to her. You’ve 
got the dearest woman in the world.” 

And Charlie replied: 

“I know, old boy. You’ve been a brick to us. 
You oughtn’t to have sent the cheque as well as all 
that silver. Good luck, old boy.” 

“O my in-laws, my in-laws, why don’t you leave 
me be.” It seemed but a flash from one experience 
to another, from pressing the girl’s dainty shoulders 
in a parting embrace to stamping about on the 
draughty stage and calling into the void: 

“Now, Mr. Prescott, I want a little more slowing 
down of this passage. Do you see what I mean, old 
boy? It gives me more time for the business.” 


100 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


The gag with the trombone player was consider¬ 
ably improved. Must keep going, doing things—a 
contract to sign at five-fifteen. He was feeling tired 
when the rehearsal was over—mustn’t get tired be¬ 
fore the two shows to-night. Perhaps he could get 
half an hour’s nap after seeing the agent before it was 
time to feed. Someone gave him a cup of tea in the 
theatre, and a dresser told him a long story about a 
disease which his wife’s father got through sitting on a 
churchyard wall, waiting for the village pub. to open 
at six. 

There appeared no interval of time between this 
and sitting in front of the suave furtive-looking 
gentleman named Welsh who “handled” him on 
behalf of the United Varieties Agency. He was 
conscious of not being at his best with Welsh. He 
believed that he could have got much better terms in 
his new contract, but somehow the matter did not 
appear to him to be of great importance. He 
changed the subject and told Welsh the story about 
the sea captain and the Irish stewardess. Welsh 
laughed immoderately. After all, quite a good 
fellow—Welsh. He was anxious to get away and see 
some boys at the club. Jimmy would certainly have 
a new story ready. He hadn’t seen Jimmy for four 
days. 

Jimmy was certainly there, and not only Jimmy, 
but old Barrow, and Sam Lenning, and a host of 
others. He had a double Scotch whisky and pro¬ 
ceeded to take a hand in the game of swopping im- 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 


IOI 


proper stories. At one time something seemed to jog 
at his consciousness and say: “Do you really think 
much of this kind of thing, old boy?” And another 
voice replied: “What does it matter? . . . 

They’ve just arrived at Brighton railway station. 
In another ten minutes they’ll be at The Ship.’” 

“I thought you were going to have a chop at six- 
thirty, Willy,” someone remarked to him suddenly. 

“So I am, old boy.” 

“It’s seven-fifteen now.” 

Good gracious! So it was! Well, he didn’t par¬ 
ticularly want a chop. He would have a couple of 
sandwiches and another double Scotch. He was 
quite himself again in his dressing room at the 
theatre. He loved the smell of grease paint and 
spirit gum, the contact of fantastic whiskers and 
clothes, the rather shabby mirror under a strong 
light. His first song was going to be “Old Fags,” 
the feckless ruffian who picks up cigarette ends. The 
dresser, whose name was Flood and who always called 
him Mr. Nilly, was ready with his three changes. 

“Number five’s on,” came the message down the 
corridors. Good! There was only “Charlemayne,” 
the equilibrist, between him and “his people.” 

Willy Nilly had got to love “his people” as he 
mentally designated them. He knew them, and they 
knew him—the reward of many years’ hard work. 
He loved stumbling down the corridors, through the 
iron doors, and groping his way amidst the dim med¬ 
ley of the wings, where gorgeous unreal women, and 


io2 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

men in bowler hats patted him as he passed and 
whispered: 

“Hullo, Willy, old boy! Good luck! ,, 

He loved to wait there and hear his number go up; 
the roar of welcome which greeted it was music to his 
soul. 

“Number seven!” 

The orchestra played the opening bars and then 
with a queer shuffle he was before them, a preposter¬ 
ous figure with a bright red nose, a miniature bowler 
hat, and a fearful old suit with ferns growing out of 
the seams, and a heavy sack slung across his back. 

“Old Fags! Old Fags! 

See my collection of fine old fags. 

If you want to be happy, 

If you want to be gay, 

Empty your sack 

At the fag-end of the day.” 

Oh, yes, you ought to see Willy Nilly in “Old 
Fags.” The habitues at the Railham Empire will 
tell you all about him. The doleful wheezy voice, the 
quaint antics, and then the screamingly funny busi¬ 
ness when he empties the sack of cigarette ends all 
over the stage and, of course, at the bottom is a bottle 
of gin and a complete set of ladies’ undies (apparently 
new and trimmed in pink). Then the business of 
finding innumerable cigarette ends in his unmanage¬ 
able beard. 

On that night, Willy Nilly was at his best. A 
lightning change and he came on as “The Carpet 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 


103 

Salesman” in which he brought on a roll of carpet, 
the opportunities concerning which are obvious. 
Then followed “The lady who works for the lady 
next door.” The inevitable encore—prepared for 
and expected—followed. A terrible Russian—more 
whiskers, red this time—singing: 

“O Mary-vitch, 

O Ada-vitch 
I don’t know which 
Ich lieber ditch; 

I told your pa 
I’d got the itch; 

He promptly hit me 
On the snitch.” 

It was difficult for Willy to escape after this valiant 
satirical digression. 

He fled perspiring to his dressing-room. 

“Give me a drink, old boy,” he gasped to the 
lugubrious Flood. 

He had smothered his face in cocoa-butter, when 
there was a knock on the door. 

“Mr. Peter Wilberforce, representing the Railham 
Mercury.” 

“Ah, yes, come in, old boy.” 

Mr. Wilberforce was in no hurry to depart. He 
had a spot—“just a couple of fingers, old boy” of 
whisky. He wanted a column of bright stuff' for 
the next issue of the weekly. “Is Railham behind 
the other suburbs in humour? Interview with the 
famous Willy Nilly—our local product.” 


104 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“You just give me a lead,” said Mr. Wilberforce, 
‘Til fill in the padding.” 

Willy Nilly found turning out the bright stuff im¬ 
mediately after his performance the most exhausting 
experience of the day. He was quite relieved when, 
at the end of forty minutes, there was a knock at the 
door, and a woman with a lanky son was shown in. 
This was the young man who wanted to go on the 
stage. The pressman departed and the mother 
started forth on a long harangue about what people 
said about her son’s remarkable genius for acting. 
Before Willy Nilly knew where he was, he was 
listening to the boy giving imitations of Beerbohm 
Tree and Henry Ainley. It was quite easy to tell 
which was meant to be which, and so Willy grasped 
the young man’s hand and said: 

“Very good, old boy! Very good.” 

He promised to do what he could, but by the time 
the mother had gone all over the same ground three 
times he found it was too late to pop round to the club 
again. It was nearly time to make up for the second 
show. He dozed in the chair for a few moments. 
Suddenly he thought: 

“They’ve had dinner. They’re probably taking a 
stroll on the front before turning in.” 

He poured himself out another tot of whisky and 
picked up his red nose. 

“O God! How tired I feel! . . . Not quite 

the man you were, old boy.” 

He found it a terrible effort to go on that second 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 


105 

time. “Old Fags” seemed flat. He began to be 
subtly aware that the audience knew that he knew 
that the song wasn’t really funny at all. At the end 
the applause was mild. “The Carpet Salesman” 
went even worse. 

“Pull yourself together, old boy,” he muttered as 
he staggered off. It wouldn’t do. A man who tops 
the bill can’t afford not to bring the house down with 
every song. He made a superhuman effort with 
“The lady who works for the lady next door.” It 
certainly went better than the others, just well 
enough to take an encore rather quickly. On this 
occasion he altered his encore. Instead of “Mary- 
vitch,” he sang a hilarious song with the refrain: 

“O my! Hold me down! 

My wife’s gone away till Monday!” 

At the end of the first verse he felt that he had got 
them. Success excited him He went for it for all he 
was worth. Willy Nilly was himself again. The 
house roared at him. He had the greatest difficulty 
in escaping without giving a further encore. As he 
stumbled up the stone staircase to his dressing-room, 
he suddenly thought: 

“They’ve gone to bed now.” 

The imperturbable Flood followed him, laden with 
properties. 

“I’ll just have one more spot, Flood, old boy.” 

How tired he was! He cleaned up languidly and 
got into his normal clothes. 


io6 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


“Well, that’s that, old boy,” he said to Flood. 
“Now I think we’ll toddle off to our bye-byes.” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Nilly, wasn’t you going round to 
Mr. Bird Crafts?” 

Eh? Oh, yes, for sure; he’d forgotten about poor 
old Bird. Couldn’t exactly let an old pal in. Well, 
he would have a cab and hang the expense—just stay 
a few minutes—dear old Bird would understand. 
But he stayed an hour at Bird Crafts. He listened 
to three new comic songs and a lot of patter. 

“Yes, you’ve got a winner there, old boy,” he re¬ 
marked at the end of each song. 

It was nearly one o’clock when he groped his way 
up the dim staircase of his own house. The bedroom 
looked bleak and uninteresting. It had never struck 
him before in quite that way. He had always liked 
his bedroom with its heavy mahogany furniture and 
red plush curtains, but somehow to-night the place 
seemed forlorn ... as though something was 
terribly lacking. 

“You’re tired, old boy.” 

He undressed and threw his clothes carelessly on 
chairs and tables. He got into bed and regarded the 
room, trying with his tired brain, to think what was 
wrong. His clothes ought not to have been thrown 
about like that, of course. He felt that they and he 
were out of place in the large room. A strange feel¬ 
ing of melancholy crept over him. 

“It’s badly ordered . . . it’s all badly ordered, 

old boy.” 


THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 


107 

He had a great desire to cry, so weak he felt. But 
no, a man mustn’t do that; a funny man certainly 
mustn’t. His mind wandered back to his old mother. 
He remembered the days when she had taught him 
to pray. He would give anything for the relief of 
prayer. But he couldn’t do that either. It didn’t 
seem exactly playing the game. He had put all that 
kind of thing by so long ago. He despised those 
people who lead unvirtuous lives and then in the end 
turned religious. He wasn’t going to pretend. He 
turned out the light, and closed his eyes. He would 
neither weep nor pray, but he must express himself 
somehow. Perhaps he compromised between these 
two human frailties. Certainly his voice was very 
near a sob, and his accents vividly alive with prayer 
as he cried to the darkness: 

“Charlie, old boy, be good to her. . . . For 

God’s sake be good to her.” 


THE BEAUTIFUL, MERCILESS LADY 


T HERE are few men strong enough to with¬ 
stand success. She is the beautiful, merciless 
lady. 

At the first tap on the shoulder the victim of her 
favour rocks and staggers. She glances into his eyes, 
and unless he is a creature of superb control he loses 
his head. He plunges hither and thither, clutching 
at the golden aura in which she seems to float. He 
feels himself a thing apart, transcendent, impervious, 
invincible. The world of pigmy men around him are 
merely the drab background to a brilliant picture. 
He can do no wrong. The standards of morality and 
behaviour which these others have set up are not his 
standards. He is the darling of the gods, and he 
follows his mistress up and up, leaping from crag to 
crag on the slope of the sunlit mountain. 

Whither? 

He never puts this query to himself. He lives in a 
welter of exultation. All things are charged with the 
magic of a thousand revelations. The younger he is 
when she first meets him the more devastating are her 
allurements. Possibly this is why so many infant 
prodigies never emerge from the infant stage. She 
stifles them with a surfeit of her riches—the little 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 109 

bores! She likes men best in their early manhood, 
when she may flirt with them at her leisure. The 
old she seldom troubles about. They know her wiles 
and are frequently too cunning or too weary. 

Oh, but the young man, still with beauty and 
health and clean, strong limbs! 

It was such a one that she met in the person of my 
friend, Johnny Lydgate. She led him away and 
destroyed him as completely as the rose is destroyed 
by the breath of autumn winds. 

There was no reason why he should have been de¬ 
stroyed, no exterior cause. He had a thousand friends 
and no enemy, except the one which she created in 
himself. Everything tended to produce in Johnny 
Lydgate a creature of gentle bearing, of sanity, and 
equipoise. His father was a delightful old gentle¬ 
man, a librarian in a country town, who kept homing 
pigeons and compiled anthologies. His mother and 
sisters were charming and lovable women. They 
formed a united, devoted family. 

It was at Stoneleigh College that I first met Lyd¬ 
gate. We were inseparable companions for nearly 
four years. My recollections of him there were those 
of a pleasant, companionable, almost negative school¬ 
boy. He excelled at nothing and displayed no am¬ 
bitions. He was affectionate, intelligent, and amus¬ 
ing, but at work and at sport he never rose above 
mediocrity. 

We know a man’s body by the familiar regard of its 
movements and expressions. We know the quality 


no MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


of his mind as it is revealed to us through his opinions 
and observations, but it is strange how we may get to 
know a man’s soul by some instant of revelation. 
We may think we are entirely familiar with him. 
We may have known him intimately for twenty years 
or more, but one day we suddenly experience a scrap 
of recognition of something deeper. It may be a 
phrase that he employs, a gesture, an attitude, some 
queer telepathic message from his eyes; but in that 
instant we realize that we know our man for the 
first time. All our values concerning him become 
readjusted from that moment. 

There came such a moment to me when Lydgate 
and I were in our last term at Stoneleigh. I re¬ 
member the moment vividly. It was after our inter¬ 
house football match, in which Lydgate had played 
very well—far above his average. Our Housemaster, 
who was a very popular man, ran up and, slapping 
Johnny on the back, called out: “Bravo, Lydgate! 
Bravo, bravo!” As he turned away I saw my school 
chum look up at the sky and a queer expression came 
over his face, a kind of drunken egoism, and I sud¬ 
denly thought to myself: 

“So that is Johnny Lydgate, after all! And I 
thought I knew-” 

For a time after leaving school we lost touch with 
each other. Boys are very apt to make vows of eternal 
friendship, and then—well, other things happen 
along. Writing is such a fag. 

Johnny went to Paris to study art, whilst I walked 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY hi 

the hospitals. However, he had not been in Paris for 
a year—he only wrote to me once!—when his father 
died. As may be imagined, a man who specializes in 
homing pigeons and anthologies does not leave a 
fortune. The Lydgate family found themselves in 
distressed circumstances. Lydgate was recalled from 
Paris, and had to do something immediately to earn 
money. 

He took the position manfully, and with that 
cheery good humour that was characteristic of him. 
He obtained a place as an assistant to a firm of 
decorative designers, hoping that his meagre training 
might be of some assistance. His remuneration was, 
naturally, quite nominal, but the firm held out pros¬ 
pects of advancement. He stayed with this firm for 
seven years and gave no evidence of special ability. 
He jogged along stolidly, learning to make pleasant, 
undistinguished designs for wallpapers, cretonnes, 
and furniture. He was very popular in the studio 
where he worked, on account of his unfailing good 
humour, unselfishness, and gift of fun. He dis¬ 
tinguished himself most by making caricatures of his 
colleagues, and imitating their voices and manner¬ 
isms. He displayed no particular ambitions, other 
than to jog along, and have as good a time as his 
limited income would allow. 

We saw each other occasionally, and when I at last 
got my degrees I bought a practice in West Kensing¬ 
ton, not far from where Lydgate had his rooms. He 
was at that time earning three hundred a year. 


112 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


The house I had taken was a tall, gaunt place in an 
inconspicuous street. I was unmarried, and the 
place was obviously too large for my requirements. 
So I had the inspiration to suggest to Lydgate that 
he should occupy the upper part, and pay me what¬ 
ever he was paying for his diggings. He accepted my 
offer with alacrity. His mother and sisters were still 
living in the country. 

The arrangement was full of promise. We had 
great fun arranging, furnishing, and decorating the 
rooms. Lydgate spent his evenings and Sundays 
doing all his own painting and decorating, and he also 
insisted on doing mine. 

I was not convinced that the delicate scheme of 
grays which he evolved for my consulting-room, with 
its frieze of stencilled peacocks and yew trees, was 
quite in keeping with the dignity of my bold brass 
plate on the front door, but then I knew nothing 
about art, and Lydgate was so kind in the matter 
that I let it pass. I had a boy to open the door, and 
an old woman kept the place reasonably clean, and 
she used to cook us an evening meal, which we had 
together. 

That was a very happy time for both of us, and it 
lasted some years. My brass plate did not seem to 
impress the neighbourhood as I should have liked. 
Sometimes when I opened the door to people they 
used to ask for the doctor. I once attended Lydgate 
when he had a feverish chill, and he said my bedside 
manners were appalling. But gradually it got about 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 113 

that young Doctor Berners was not such a fool as you 
might imagine. Some said that he was a fairly good, 
straight, sensible doctor, who took trouble with his 
patients. At the end of the first year the practice 
began to show signs of developing. 

It was at this time that Lydgate had an affair with 
a married ballad-singer. I could never quite get 
to the root of the matter. Neither could I under¬ 
stand his infatuation. She was a fair, plump person, 
with magnificent neck and shoulders, a brilliantly 
clear but unsympathetic voice, and an almost unique 
gift of self-concentration. She had this wonderful 
voice, but she knew nothing, not even about music. 
She used to wear tiny paste diamonds early in the 
morning, and a shiny vegetable silk jumper which 
made her person appear even more capacious than 
it really was. Her name was Betty Brandt, and she 
had a husband who travelled in automobile acces¬ 
sories. 

As I say, I do not know the details of this regret¬ 
table affair. I only know that it was very passionate, 
rather involved, and it went on for nearly six months. 
At the end of that time something happened. 
Whether they quarrelled, or whether the traveller in 
automobile accessories intervened, I cannot say. 
But Johnny Lydgate was desperately unhappy. He 
sulked and moped and would not go out, except back¬ 
ward and forward to his work. And then, one day, 
he did not even go to that. He told me surlily that 
he had left. He gave no reason. He sat about at 


11 4 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

home, and apparently drowned his sorrow in char¬ 
coal and water-colours. He sketched and drew all 
day, things which he said he never got an opportunity 
of doing at “that confounded shop.” I thought it as 
well to leave him alone. He paid his rent the first 
week and then he asked me for credit, which I 
naturally acceded. 

One Sunday morning I went up to his room, and 
found the walls covered with drawings and sketches. 
In my poor opinion they seemed to be a brilliant 
advance on anything he had done before. I said so, 
and he seemed pleased, and announced that he was 
going to hawk his work around to editors, and try to 
start up on his own. I wished him the best of luck. 

At the end of a fortnight his campaign had ap¬ 
parently met with a fair measure of success. He 
told me he had some commissions and he hoped soon 
to be able to let me have some money. The next 
morning he came into the dining-room. His face 
was crinkled with suppressed laughter, his eyes bril¬ 
liant with exultant glee. He unfolded a drawing 
and held it up on the wall. It was a caricature of 
Betty Brandt! 

It was the most brilliant and, at the same time, the 
crudest thing I have ever seen. It was no portrai¬ 
ture, but you could not mistake it. I had never liked 
Betty Brandt, and I was on the point of protesting, 
and then the realization that this drawing, in any 
case, meant the end of the Betty affair, gave me such 
a feeling of relief that I laughed almost hysterically. 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 115 

Johnny and I stood side by side, laughing till the 
tears rolled down our cheeks. Poor Betty! 

He seemed freer after that, and worked assiduously 
at the orders he had in hand. I am afraid they were 
not very remunerative. It was a long time before he 
proffered any further contribution toward the up¬ 
keep of our establishment, and when he did so, it was 
with many groans and apologies for the smallness of 
the amount. I told him that he was not to worry 
about it; my practice was beginning to pay fairly 
well, and it made a great difference to me to have a 
companion. 

For a year I observed Lydgate’s grim struggle with 
his artistic conscience. The point was that for the 
work he wanted to do there was no demand. But 
there was work which he could do for which there was 
a demand. The latter gradually absorbed his ener¬ 
gies. He refused to sponge on me. In eighteen 
months’ time he had wiped out all debts and was 
beginning to make headway. He appeared to have 
resigned himself to a life of steady toil. I found him 
particularly companionable at that time. I think 
the Betty Brandt affair had done him good. He was 
calmer, quicker in his sympathies, more tolerant and 
reflective. He still had his moments of gay fun; 
his capacity for fooling was enlarged, his perceptions 
and discernments were more incisive. 

When I was thirty and Lydgate twenty-nine we 
both seemed to have settled down to a solid pro¬ 
fessional life. He was making five or six hundred 


n6 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


a year, and had even saved a little. I was making 
rather more, and we had improved the conditions of 
our household. We now had a “general,” as well as 
a charwoman and a page-boy. On occasions we 
actually entertained, bought reserved seats for the 
theatre, and went away for week-end jaunts. 

And then, without any ostentatious forewarning, 
Viola appeared on the scene. She glided into our 
lives with the inevitableness of a portent in a Greek 
drama. She had occupied her place upon the stage 
before we had realized the significance of her en¬ 
trance. She was the daughter of an old fellow- 
practitioner, a Doctor Brayscott, with whom I had 
been on friendly terms, and who had beeen extremely 
kind to me when I started my practice. His wife was 
dead, but he and his daughter lived two streets away, 
and we indulged in those little social amenities which 
busy professional people always seem to find time 
for—occasional dinners, a game of bridge, a little 
music. Viola sang divinely. I was, of course, the 
first to meet her, and I sang her praises to such good 
purpose that Lydgate would not rest until he met 
her. And then, of course, our little trouble began. 

There was never a gentler, fairer, more adorable 
woman than Viola Brayscott. She brought into a 
room a feeling of complete tranquillity, warmed with 
the sun-kissed humours of virginal youth, seeking for 
ever surprises and revelations, giving out love and 
sympathy and drawing it to herself. 

I cannot tell you of the agony and ecstasy of those 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 117 

months that followed. She visited us sometimes 
with her father, sometimes alone. We visited her, 
sometimes together, sometimes alone. It took some 
weeks to realize that we both adored her. What 
was to happen ? Well, I think we played the game 
fairly. Each knew of the other’s infatuation. It 
was a fair field and no favour. One does learn some¬ 
thing, after all, at an English public school. We bore 
each other no animosity. We took no unfair ad¬ 
vantages. 

And what of Viola? For some time the pendulum 
appeared to swing backward and forward. There 
was no gainsaying the fact that she was really fond of 
both of us. But the pendulum of that tenderer 
passion does not swing backward and forward. It 
has a bias, a rhythm of its own. And we each knew 
that the day would come when the pendulum would 
not swing back to one of us. 

Heigho! I need hardly tell you the outcome of this 
contest—you will have foreseen it already. In the 
social arena, when Lydgate chose to shine, I was no 
match for him. He had all the advantages of good 
looks, engaging manners, and that genius for always 
being at his best in her presence. He shone and 
sparkled and glowed, whilst I sat dumb and dour and 
angry with myself. I could not be surprised when 
the pendulum swung his way and did not return to 
me. 

They got married the following spring, and after a 
honeymoon in Brittany, went to live in a flat at 


n8 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

Barnes. We visited each other occasionally, and 
the complete success of their union emphasized 
the loneliness of my own dismal household. They 
were devoted to each other and bewilderingly 
happy. 

When the possessive sense is outraged, work is our 
only friend and physician. I worked and worked 
and worked, and the practice grew. But, oh, the 
emptiness of those waking hours! 

The following year they had a child, a boy, with 
those lustre-blue eyes of the father. Their happi¬ 
ness appeared complete. Lydgate was still doing 
reasonably well at what he called his “solid com¬ 
mercial stuff.” He seemed to have put all other 
ambitions behind him. As a social problem I would 
have wagered that there would be nothing more to 
solve concerning him—in short, that he was going to 
“settle down and live happily ever afterward.” 

But the face of the Sphinx is inscrutable. 

It all occurred so surprisingly suddenly. I believe 
its first inception came about through a caricature he 
did of Lord Balfour. Balfour is an easy person to 
caricature, and this was not one of Lydgate’s best; 
but the drawing was published in a weekly and 
attracted the attention of a well-known Jewish 
gentleman, who called himself Maurice Loffley, and 
who dealt in other people’s brains. He asked to see 
some of Lydgate’s work, and he admired it extrava¬ 
gantly, especially the caricature of Betty Brandt; 
but he said: 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 119 

“ My boy, it’s celebrities we want. Famous people. 
Do some, and I’ll place them for you.” 

The outcome was not immediately successful. 
Lydgate did do some, and some of them were placed; 
but Mr. Loffley was not very satisfactory over his 
business arrangements, and Lydgate ended up by 
doing a caricature of Mr. Loffley himself, which was 
the best and crudest thing he had turned out since 
Betty. It was published in another illustrated 
weekly, and caused joy to all of Mr. Loffley’s col¬ 
leagues and rivals. 

The success of this rapidly led to others. Apart 
from his skill as a draughtsman, Lydgate had a keen 
wit and an adroit gift of literary exposition. He 
worked out some wonderful gibes at various famous 
people. His drawings began to be talked about, and 
to be in demand by editors and publishers. Their 
commercial value rose in direct ratio. 

Barely six months after the incident of Mr. 
Loffley—could his name possibly have been Moritz 
Loeffler?—Johnny Lydgate had a one-man show at 
the Regent Galleries. The exhibition was a most 
remarkable success. A publisher bought the copy¬ 
right of the entire collection right out, and nearly all 
the originals were sold at high prices. The Press 
came out with headlines about the discovery of a new 
satirist. Artists and society people flocked to see the 
exhibition. 

On the Saturday afternoon following the opening 
I was in the galleries, talking to Johnny and his wife 


120 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

and Mr. Burrows, the owner of the galleries. They 
were all flushed and excited, and Viola was looking 
proud and very pretty. 

Suddenly Mr. Burrows dived across the room and 
returned with a tall, striking-looking girl. I did not 
hear Mr. Burrows introduce her, but, of course, I 
knew her well by sight. She was a very famous and 
intellectual woman, the daughter of one of His 
Majesty's ministers. Her photograph was always 
gracing the illustrated papers. I saw her shake 
Johnny's hand, and then I heard her deep contralto 
voice exclaim with feeling: 

“Oh, Mr. Lydgate, I’m so pleased to make your 
acquaintance. I think your drawings are simply 
gorgeous!" 

I could not hear Johnny's reply. They talked for 
several minutes, and she passed on. And then I saw 
him stagger a few steps and look up at the sky¬ 
light. 

My mind immediately reverted to a certain fateful 
moment at Stoneleigh, on that spring day after the 
inter-house match, when he was congratulated on his 
fine play, and I saw upon his face the identical ex¬ 
pression. He was like a man dazed and drunken 
with the riches of his own ego. Instead of the open 
field and the cheering boys, he was swaying under 
the narcotic of a more pervading flattery—brilliant 
and clever people, the faint perfume of a richly 
dressed woman, admiring and significant glances. 
“That is he! That's Lydgate—Lydgate himself!" 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 121 

The beautiful and merciless lady had begun to put 
her spell on him. 

What astonished me was the rapidity with which 
the poison worked. Within a few months he became 
a celebrity. He was just thirty-three, at the very 
fullness of his powers. His popularity was no doubt 
greatly accelerated by the charm of his personality, 
his good looks, genial manners, and quaint humour. 

He was immediately “taken up” by a certain Lady 
Stradling, a wealthy and adventurous American 
woman who adored lions. One invitation led to 
another. He was always out at some dinner or 
reception. He developed the club manner. He 
joined several Bohemian clubs, where he became 
extremely popular. He would give an entertain¬ 
ment at a drawing-board, making caricatures of 
people present and keeping up a running fire of most 
amusing chatter. He began to live extravagantly, 
but even then he was making more money than he 
could spend. 

At first Viola entered with zest into these mani¬ 
festations of social advancement. She accompanied 
him to many dinners and functions, but gradually 
they began to pall upon her, and she let him go by 
himself. 

I remember meeting him one night the following 
winter at the Wombats Club. I was enormously 
impressed by the change in him. I was there when 
he arrived, and I saw him enter the room. He was 
still good looking, but his face had become looser, 


122 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

and a little coarser. He was greeted by cries of 
“Hallo, Johnny! Good old Johnny!’’ “Who is 
that?” “Don’t you know? That’s Lydgate— 
Johnny Lydgate!” He tried to appear impervious 
to these manifestations, but at the back of his eye I 
could detect the slow greedy satisfaction of the man 
whose cup of happiness is overflowing. He spoke 
to me pleasantly, but his eyes wandered, seeking 
distinguished names and faces. He was not particu¬ 
larly proud at being seen in conversation with a 
suburban doctor. 

“Who is that? Ah, excuse me, old chap; I want a 
word with Edwin Wray. Hallo, Wray, old boy!” 

Of course, Edwin Wray is familiar to you? You 
may see his picture on all the hoardings—the famous 
comedian. 

Later, Johnny did one of his inimitable sketches— 
a huge success, a wonderful hit at Edwin Wray. 
Afterward he sat at a table near me, drinking rum 
and water. He had developed a rather affected 
style of dress, with a voluminous blue and white 
stock, and peg top trousers. Occasionally he made a 
note in a sketch-book, or flung an epigram at a 
neighbour. 

The din of the club increased. It was difficult to 
see across the room for smoke. And suddenly I 
thought of Viola. Was he neglecting her? Was he 
cruel to her? 

It was very late when I took my departure, and I 
was crazy to say something to him. I did indeed 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 123 

manage to mumble something to him about this kind 
of life being bad for one’s nervous energies. He 
took another sip of rum and said: 

“It’s a lovely life, old boy—a lovely life!” I left 
him there. 

The memory of that evening disturbed me. I 
felt that my position as an old friend justified me in 
indulging in some course of interference. A few days 
later I called, and found Viola alone. I thought she 
seemed a little abstracted and self-conscious with me. 
We talked of different things, and then I blurted out: 

“I think Johnny is having too many late nights. 
He didn’t look well the other evening.” 

She bit her lip and said nothing. Suddenly she 
rose, pressed my arm, and turned away. She was 
crying. I went up to her. 

“Tell me, Viola, is anything wrong?” 

She dabbed her eyes. 

“No, no—oh, no; it’s only that he—it’s just what 
you say. Too many late nights, and sometimes he 
drinks too much, and has headaches and is sullen; 
there’s nothing else, Tom. He loves me as much as 
ever, I am certain. He hasn’t the strength, that’s 
all.” 

Oh, the beautiful, merciless lady! She took nearly 
three years to destroy my friend. You may say that 
drink was the cause of his ultimate downfall. Drink 
certainly accelerated it, but it was not the basic 
cause. He was drunk before he began to drink— 
drunk with the rich wine of her charms. 


124 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

Have you ever seen a man destroyed in that way? 
The spectacle is not edifying. He went rapidly from 
bad to worse. The miracle is how he retained his 
powers as a draughtsman almost to the end. From 
a pleasant good-looking young man he developed 
into a puffy, distinguished-looking Georgian roue. 
The world spoiled him, and he hadn’t the strength to 
stand up against it. The standards of morality and 
behaviour which these other men set up did not apply 
to Johnny Lydgate. Oh, dear, no! He was above 
it all, a thing apart, a genius, the observed of all 
observers. Sometimes he would be out all night. 
Sometimes he would be lost for days together. Then 
he would turn up, be very ill, and go to bed. Viola 
would minister to him, and give him hot-water 
bottles. And he would cry and become maudlin. 
He would swear not to do it again. He loved her— 
oh, how he loved her! 

And she would stroke his temple and whisper: 

“Strength, dear, strength. You must try. Oh, 
you must try, for my sake!” 

Of course he would try. How ill he felt! And the 
days passed, and his physical strength returned to 
him. Came also the little whispers of the outside 
world. An invitation to Lady Stradling’s; telephone 
messages from anxious publishers; the sale of two 
water-colours at a record price; the house dinner at 
the Wombats Club. Just this once—oh, just this 
once, Viola! 

Back he went, lost to the claims of common 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 125 

decency. His face became lined and blotchy. He 
trembled in his movements; the veins in his arms and 
his hands stood out like knotted cords. 

To the very end she tended him, shielded him, 
mothered him, and fought for him. The world will 
never know what that woman suffered and endured. 
She says that he was never cruel to her, except by his 
neglect and lack of consideration. In his behaviour 
toward her he was always tender and passionate, 
contrite, disgusted with himself. He knew quite 
well what he was doing. It was not that he loved 
Viola any the less, but that he was clay in the hands 
of that more powerful mistress—the glamour of 
publicity, to be talked about, to be pointed at, to be 
praised in the Press. 

Doctor Brayscott and I did what we could. We 
advised and argued and cajoled, and even bullied. 
He had other real friends, too. Everybody did what 
he could, but it was of no avail. When he sank 
into that last illness from which he never recovered,. 
I visited him one day, and sat regarding the spectacle 
of “that unmatched form and feature of blown youth, 
blasted with ecstasy.” He opened his eyes and 
looked at me. He gave me a quick glance of appre¬ 
hension. Suddenly he smiled in his old way and 
whispered: 

“It was worth while, old boy!” 

Some men are made that way. They must crowd 
their life into a capsule and swallow it. They know 
they are wooing destruction, and it is “worth while.” 


126 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


Not for them the steady rhythm of an ordered life. 
The beautiful, merciless lady pipes the tune and they 
must dance. 

***** 

In spite of all, Johnny Lydgate remains a precious 
and endearing memory to us—to Viola and me. 
When I married her, two years after his death, we 
went abroad for a while, and on our return I acquired 
a practice at Knayling, on the Sussex downs, and 
there we built our home. The boy is a perfect joy 
to us. He has his father’s eyes and vivacious 
manners, and something of his mother’s warmth and 
tenderness. The study of his welfare and training 
is a constant source of affectionate discussion. What 
will he become? What lies before him? We are full 
of hope and tremulous surmises. Only at times do 
the old doubts and fears assail us. He is twenty now, 
and next term he leaves Cambridge. On this desk, 
as I write, there is a letter from him, written to his 
mother: 

Mother Dear,— 

What is all this about the Indian Civil Service? I should 
simply hate it. Fancy seeing all one’s life in perspective! Know¬ 
ing exactly how much you will be earning when you’re forty- 
five; knowing that you’ll get a pension when you’re sixty or 
seventy, or whenever it is. Who cares what happens when they 
are seventy! No, old thing. Tony Stephens is going to Paris to 
study art. I think I should like to join him. You know I can 
draw, don’t you? Smithers thinks my life studies are pretty 


THE BEAUTIFUL , MERCILESS LADY 127 

useful. I have a feeling that I might do well. Anyway, we’ll 
talk it over when I come down. Crowds of love, mother dear.— 

Your loving 
Son. 

And I sit here, turning it over and biting my pen. 
He has his father’s lustre-blue eyes. How would you 
answer this letter? Can one advise the young? 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


E VERY seaman who makes the city of Bor¬ 
deaux a port of call knows the Rue Lucien 
Faure. It is one of those irregular streets 
which one finds in the neighbourhood of docks in 
every city in the world. Cord wainers, ships’ stores, 
cafes and strange foreign eating houses jostle each 
other indiscriminately. At the farther end of the 
Rue Lucien Faure, and facing Bassin a Flot No. 2, is 
a little cul de sac known as Place Duquesne, an 
obscure honeycomb of high dingy houses. It had 
often been pointed out to the authorities that the 
Place Duquesne was a scandal to the neighbourhood; 
not that the houses themselves were either better or 
worse than those of adjoining streets, but that the 
inhabitants belonged almost entirely to the criminal 
classes. A murderer, an apache, a blackmailer, a 
coiner, hardly ever appeared in the Court of Justice 
without his habitation being traced to this unsavoury 
retreat. 

And the authorities did nothing. Indeed, Chief 
Inspector Tolozan, who had that neighbourhood 
under his special supervision, said that he preferred 
it as it was. He affirmed—not unreasonably—that 
it was better to have all one’s birds in one nest rather 


128 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


129 


than have them scattered all over the wood. Tolo- 
zan, although a practical man, was something of a 
visionary. He was of that speculative turn of mind 
which revels in theories. The contemplation of 
crime moved him in somewhat the same way that a 
sunset will affect a landscape painter. He indulged 
in broad generalities, and it always gave him a mild 
thrill of pleasure when the actions or behaviour of 
his protegees substantiated his theories. 

In a detached way, he had quite an affection for 
his “ birds,” as he called them. He knew their 
record, their characteristics, their tendencies, their 
present occupation, if any, their place of abode— 
which was generally the Place Duquesne. If old 
Granouz, the forger, moved from the attic in No. 17 
to the basement in No. 11, Monsieur Tolozan would 
sense the reason of this change. And he never inter¬ 
fered until the last minute. He allowed Carros to 
work three months on that very ingenious plant for 
counterfeiting one franc notes. He waited till the 
plates were quite complete before he stepped in 
with his quiet: 

“Now, mon brave , it distresses me to inter¬ 
fere. . . 

He admired the plates enormously, and in the van 
on the way to the police court he sighed many times, 
and ruminated upon what he called “the accident of 
crime .” One of his pet theories was that no man was 
entirely criminal. Somewhere at some time it had 
all been just touch and go. With better fortune the 


130 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

facile Carros might now be the director of an insur¬ 
ance company, or perhaps an eminent pianist. 
Another saying of his, which he was very fond of 
repeating, was this: 

“The law does not sit in judgment on people. 
Laws are only made for the protection of the citizen.” 

His colleagues were inclined to laugh at “Papa 
Tolozan,” as they called him, but they were bound 
to respect his thoroughness and conscientiousness, 
and they treated his passion for philosophic specu¬ 
lation as merely the harmless eccentricity of an ur¬ 
bane and charming character. Perhaps in this 
attitude toward crime there have always been two 
schools of thought, the one which regards it—like 
Tolozan—as “the accident,” the other, as repre¬ 
sented by the forceful Muguet of the Council of 
Jurisprudence at Bayonne, who insists that crime is 
an ineradicable trait, an inheritance, a fate. In 
spite of their divergence of outlook these two were 
great friends, and many and long were the arguments 
they enjoyed over a glass of vermouth and seltzer at 
a quiet cafe they sometimes favoured in the Cours 
du Pave, when business brought them together. 
Muguet would invariably clinch the argument with 
a staccato: 

“Well, come now, what about old Laissac?” 

Then he would slap his leg and laugh. Here, 
indeed, was a hard case. Here, indeed, was an 
irreconcilable, an intransigeant , an ingrained criminal, 
and as this story principally concerns old Laissac it 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


131 

may be as well to describe him a little in detail at 
once. He was at that time fifty-seven years of age. 
Twenty-one years and ten months of that period had 
been passed in penitentiaries, prisons, and convict 
establishments. He was already an old man, but a 
wiry, energetic old man, with a battered face seamed 
by years of vicious dissipations and passions. 

At the age of seventeen he had killed a Chinaman. 
The affair was the outcome of a dockside melee , and 
many contended that Laissac was not altogether 
responsible. However that may be, the examining 
magistrate at that time was of opinion that there 
had been rather too much of that sort of thing of 
late, and that an example must be made of someone. 
Even the chink must be allowed some show of 
protection. Laissac was sent to a penitentiary for 
two years. He returned an avowed enemy of society. 
Since that day, he had been convicted of burglary, 
larceny, passing of counterfeit coins, assault, and 
drunkenness. These were only the crimes of which 
he had actually been convicted, but everyone knew 
that they were only an infinitesimal fraction of the 
crimes of which he was guilty. 

He was a cunning old man. He had bashed one 
of his pals and maimed him for life, and the man was 
afraid to give evidence against him. He had treated 
at least two women with almost unspeakable cruelty. 
There was no record of his ever having done a single 
action of kindliness or unselfishness. He had, more¬ 
over, been a perverter and betrayer of others. He 


132 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

bred crime with malicious enjoyment. He trained 
young men in the tricks of the trade. He dealt in 
stolen property. He was a centre, a focus, of crimi¬ 
nal activity. One evening, Muguet remarked to 
Tolozan, as they sipped their coffee: 

“The law is too childish. That man has been 
working steadily all his life to destroy and pervert 
society. He has a diseased mind. Why aren’t we 
allowed to do away with him? If, as you say, the 
laws were made to protect citizens, there’s only one 
way to protect ourselves against a villain like 
Laissac—the guillotine.” 

Tolozan shook his head slowly. “No, the law 
only allows capital punishment in the case of mur¬ 
der.” 

“I know that, my old cabbage. What I say is, 
why should society bother to keep an old ruffian like 
that?” 

Tolozan did not answer, and Muguet continued: 

“Where is he now?” 

“He lives in an attic in the Place Duquesne, No. 

... >> 

33 - 

“Are you watching him?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Been to call on him?” 

“I was there yesterday.” 

“What was he doing?” 

“Playing with a dog.” 

Muguet slapped his leg, and threw back his head. 
Playing with a dog! That was excellent! The 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


133 

greatest criminal in Bordeaux—playing with a dogJ 
Muguet didn’t know why it was so funny. Perhaps 
it was just the vision of his old friend, Tolozan, 
solemnly sitting there and announcing the fact that 
Laissac was playing with a dog, as though it were a 
matter of profound significance. Tolozan looked 
slightly annoyed and added: 

“He’s very fond of dogs.” 

This seemed to Muguet funnier still, and it was 
some moments before he could steady his voice to 
say: 

“Well, I’m glad he’s fond of something. Was 
there nothing you could lay your hands on?” 

“Nothing.” 

It is certainly true that Muguet had a strong case 
in old Laissac to confute his friend’s theories. Where 
was “the accident of crime” in such a confirmed 
criminal ? 

It is also true old Laissac was playing with a dog, 
and at that very moment. Whilst the representa¬ 
tives of law and order were discussing him in the 
Cafe Basque he was tickling the ribs of his beloved 
Sancho, and saying: 

“Up, soldier. Courage, my old warrior.” 

Sancho was a strange, forlorn-looking beast, not 
entirely retriever, not wholly poodle, indeed not 
necessarily dog at all. He had large sentimental 
eyes, and he worshipped his master with unquestion¬ 
ing adoration. When his master was out, as he 
frequently was on strange nocturnal adventures, he 


134 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

would lie on the mat by the door, his nostrils snuggled 
between his paws, and watch the door. Directly his 
master entered the house, Sancho would be aware of 
it. He would utter one long whine of pleasure, and 
his skin would shake and tremble with excitement. 
The reason of his perturbations this morning was 
that part of the chimney had fallen down with a 
crash. The brickwork had given way, and a little way 
up old Laissac could see a narrow opening, reveal¬ 
ing the leads on the adjoining roof. It was summer 
time and such a disaster did not appal him unduly. 

“Courage,” he said, “to-morrow that shall be set 
right. To-day and to-night we have another ome¬ 
lette in the pan, old comrade. To-morrow there will 
be ham bones for Sancho, and a nice bottle of fine 
champagne for the breadwinner, eh? Lie down ; 
boy, that’s only old Grognard!” 

The dog went into his corner, and a most strange- 
looking old man entered the room. He had thin 
white hair, a narrow horse-like face with prominent 
eyes. His face appeared much too thin and small for 
the rest of his body, which had unexpected pro¬ 
jections and convolutions. From his movements 
it was immediately apparent that his left side was 
paralyzed. On the left breast of his shabby green 
coat was a medal for saving lives. The medal 
recorded that, at the age of twenty-six, he had 
plunged into the Garonne, and saved the lives of two 
boys. He sat down and produced a sheet of dirty 
paper. 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


135 


“Everything is in order,” he said dolefully. 

“Good,” said Laissac. “Show us the plan.” 

“This is the garage and the room above where you 
enter. The chauffeur left with Madame Delannelle 
and her maid for Pau this morning. They will be 
away three weeks or more. Monsieur Delannelle 
sleeps in this room on the first floor; but, as you know, 
he is a drug fiend. From eleven o'clock till four in 
the morning he is in a coma. Lisette and the other 
maid sleep on the top floor. Lisette will see that this 
other woman gets a little of the white powder in her 
cider before she retires. There is no one else in the 
house. There is no dog.” 

“It appears a modest enterprise.” 

“It is as easy as opening a bottle of white oil. The 
door of the room above the garage, connecting with 
the first landing in the house, is locked and the key 
taken away, but it is a very old-fashioned lock. You 
could open it with a bone toothpick, master.” 

“ H'm. I suppose Lisette expects something out of 
this?” 

The old man sniggered, and blew his nose on a red 
handkerchief. 

“She's doing it for love.” 

“You mean—young Leon Briteuil?” 

“Yes, now this is the point, master. Are you 
going to crack this crib yourself, or would you like 
young Briteuil to go along? He's a promising lad, 
and he would be proud to be in a job with you.” 

“What stuff is there, there?” 


136 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“In the second drawer on the left-hand side in a 
bureau in the salon is a cash box, where Monsieur 
keeps the money from his rents. He owns a lot of 
small property. There ought to be about ten thou¬ 
sand francs. Madame has taken most of her jewels, 
but there are a few trinkets in a jewel case in the bed¬ 
room. For the rest, there is a collection of old coins 
in a cabinet, some of them gold. That is in the 
library, here, see? And the usual silver plate and 
trinkets scattered about the house. Altogether a 
useful haul, too much for one man to carry.” 

“Very well, I’ll take the young—tell him to be at 
the Place du Pont, the other side of the river, at 
twelve-thirty. If he fails or makes the slightest slip, 
I’ll break his face. Tell him that. That’s all.” 

“Right you are, master.” 

Young Briteuil was not quite the lion-hearted 
person he liked to pose as, and this message fright¬ 
ened him. Long before the fateful hour of the 
appointment, he was dreading the association of the 
infamous Laissac more than the hazardous adventure 
upon which he was committed. He would have 
rather made the attempt by himself. He was neat 
with his fingers and had been quite successful pilfer¬ 
ing little articles from the big stores, but he had never 
yet experienced the thrill of housebreaking. 

Moreover, he felt bitterly that the arrangement 
was unjust. It was he who had manoeuvred the 
whole field of operations, he with his spurious love- 
making to the middle-aged coquettish Lisette. There 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


137 

was a small fortune to be picked up, but because he 
was pledged to the gang of which Laissac was the 
chief, his award would probably amount to a capful 
of sous. Laissac had the handling of the loot, and he 
would say that it realized anything he fancied. 
Grognard had to have his commission also. The 
whole thing was grossly unfair. He deeply regretted 
that he had not kept the courting of Lisette a secret. 
Visions of unholy orgies danced before his eyes. 
However, there it was, and he had to make the best 
of it. He was politeness and humility itself when he 
met old Laissac at the corner of the Place du Pont 
punctually at the hour appointed. Laissac was in 
one of his sullen moods and they trudged in silence 
out to the northern suburb where the villa of Mon¬ 
sieur Delannelle was situated. 

The night was reasonably dark and fine. As they 
got nearer and nearer to their destination, and Lais¬ 
sac became more and more unresponsive, the younger 
man’s nerves began to get on edge. He was becom¬ 
ing distinctly jumpy, and, as people will in such a 
condition, he carried things to the opposite extreme. 
He pretended to be extremely light-hearted, and to 
treat the affair as a most trivial exploit. He even 
assumed an air of flippancy, but in this attitude he 
was not encouraged by his companion, who on more 
than one occasion told him to keep his ugly mouth 
shut. 

“You won’t be so merry when you get inside,” he 
said. 


138 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“But there is no danger, no danger at all,” laughed 
the young man unconvincingly. 

“There’s always danger in our job,” growled Lais- 
sac. “It’s the things you don’t expect that you’ve 
got to look out for. You can make every preparation, 
think of every eventuality, and then suddenly, 
presto! a bullet from some unknown quarter. The 
gendarmes may have had wind of it all the time. 
Monsieur Delannelle may not have indulged in his 
dope for once. He may be sitting up with a loaded 
gun. The girl Lisette may be an informer. The 
other girl may have heard and given the game away. 
Madame and the chaufFeur may return at any 
moment. People have punctures sometimes. You 
can even get through the job and then be nabbed at 
the corner of the street, or the next morning, or the 
following week. There’s a hundred things likely to 
give you away. Inspector Tolozan himself may be 
hiding in the garden with a half-dozen of his thick- 
necks. Don’t you persuade yourself it’s a soft thing, 
my white-livered cockerel.” 

This speech did not raise Leon’s spirits. When 
they reached the wall adjoining the garage, he was 
trembling like a leaf, and his teeth began to chat¬ 
ter. 

“I could do with a nip of brandy,” he said sullenly 
in a changed voice. 

The old criminal looked at him contemptuously, 
and produced a flask from some mysterious pocket. 
He took a swig, and then handed it to his companion. 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 139 

He allowed him a little gulp, and then snatched the 
flask away. 

“Now, up you go,” he said. Leon knew then that 
escape was impossible. Old Laissac held out his 
hands for him to rest his heel upon. He did so, and 
found himself jerked to the top of the wall. The old 
man scrambled up after him somehow. They then 
dropped down quietly on to some sacking in the 
corner of the yard. The garage and the house were 
in complete darkness. The night was unnaturally 
still, the kind of night when every little sound be¬ 
comes unduly magnified. Laissac regarded the dim 
structure of the garage with a professional eye. Leon 
was listening for sounds, and imagining eyes peering 
at them through the shutters . . . perhaps a 

pistol or two already covering them. His heart was 
beating rapidly. He had never imagined it was going 
to be such a nerve-racking business. Curse the old 
man! Why didn’t he let him have his full whack 
at the brandy? 

A sudden temptation crept over him. The old man 
was peering forward. He would hit him suddenly 
on the back of the head and then bolt. Yes, he 
would. He knew he would never have the courage to 
force his way into that sinister place of unknown 
terrors. He would rather die out here in the yard. 

“Come on,” said Laissac, advancing cautiously 
toward the door of the garage. 

Leon slunk behind him, watching for his oppor¬ 
tunity. He had no weapon, nothing but his hands, 


140 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

and he knew that in a struggle with Laissac he would 
probably be worsted. The tidy concrete floor of the 
yard held out no hope of promiscuous weapons. 
Once he thought: “I will strike him suddenly on the 
back of the head with all my might. As he falls I’ll 
strike him again. When he’s on the ground I’ll kick 
his brains out. . . .” 

To such a desperate pass can fear drive a man! 
Laissac stood by the wood frame of the garage door 
looking up and judging the best way to make an 
entrance of the window above. While he was doing 
so Leon stared round, and his eye alighted on a short 
dark object near the wall. It was a piece of iron 
piping. He sidled toward it, and surreptitiously 
picked it up. At that exact instant Laissac glanced 
round at him abruptly and whispered: 

“What are you doing?” 

Now must this desperate venture be brought to a 
head. He stumbled toward Laissac, mumbling 
vaguely: 

“I thought this might be useful.” 

Leon was left-handed and he gripped the iron pip¬ 
ing in that hand. Laissac was facing him, and he 
must be put off his guard. He mumbled: 

“What’s the orders, master?” 

He doubtless hoped from this that Laissac would 
turn round and look up again. He made no allow¬ 
ance for that animal instinct of self-preservation 
which is most strongly marked in men of low men¬ 
tality. Without a word old Laissac sprang at him. 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 141 

He wanted to scream with fear, but instead he 
struck wildly with the iron. He felt it hit something 
ineffectually. A blow on the face staggered him. 
In the agony of recovery he realized that his weapon 
had been wrenched from his hands! Now, indeed, 
he would scream, and rouse the neighbourhood to 
save him from this monster. If he could only get his 
voice! If he could only get his voice! Curse this 
old devil! Where is he? Spare me! Spare me! 
Oh, no, no . . . oh, God! 

Old Laissac stuffed the body behind a bin where 
rubbish was put, in the corner of the yard. The 
struggle had been curiously silent and quick. The 
only sound had been the thud of the iron on his 
treacherous assistant’s skull, a few low growls and 
blows. Fortunately, the young man had been too 
paralyzed with fear to call out. Laissac stood in the 
shadow of the wall and waited. Had the struggle 
attracted any attention? Would it be as well to 
abandon the enterprise? He thought it all out dis¬ 
passionately. An owl, with a deep mellow note, 
sailed majestically away toward a neighbouring 
church. Perhaps it was rather foolish. If he were 
caught, and the body discovered—that would be the 
end of Papa Laissac! That would be a great mis¬ 
fortune. Everyone would miss him so, and he still 
had life and fun in him. He laughed bitterly. Yes, 
perhaps he had better steal quietly away, He moved 
over to the outer wall. 

Then a strange revulsion came over him, perhaps 


i 4 2 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

a deep bitterness with life, or a gambler’s lure. Per¬ 
haps it was only professional vanity. He had come 
here to burgle this villa, and he disliked being 
thwarted. Besides it was such a soft thing, all the 
dispositions so carefully laid. He had already 
thought out the way to mount to the bedroom above 
the door. In half an hour he might be richer by 
many thousand francs, and he had been getting 
rather hard up of late. That young fool would be 
one less to pay. He shrugged his broad shoulders, 
and crept back to the garage door. 

In ten minutes time he had not only entered the 
room above the garage but had forced the old- 
fashioned lock, and entered the passage connecting 
with the house. He was perfectly cool now, his 
senses keenly alert. He went down on his hands and 
knees and listened. He waited some time, focussing 
in his mind the exact disposition of the rooms as 
shown in the plan old Grognard had shown him. 
He crawled along the corridor like a large gorilla. 
At the second door on the left he heard the heavy, 
stentorian breathing of a man inside the room. 
Monsieur Delannelle, good! It sounded like the 
breathing of a man under the influence of drugs or 
drink. 

After that, with greater confidence, he made his 
way downstairs to the salon. With unerring pre¬ 
cision he located the drawer in the bureau where the 
cash box was kept. The box was smaller than he 
expected and he decided to take it away rather than 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 143 

to indulge in the rather noisy business of forcing the 
lock. He slipped it into a sack. Guided by his 
electric torch, he made a rapid round of the reception 
rooms. He took most of the collection of old coins 
from the cabinet in the library and a few more silver 
trinkets. Young Briteuil would certainly have been 
useful carrying all this bulkier stuff. Rather un¬ 
fortunate, but still it served the young fool right. 
He, Laissac, was not going to encumber himself with 
plate ... a few small and easily negotiable 
pieces were all he desired, sufficient to keep him in 
old brandy, and Sancho in succulent ham bones for a 
few months to come. A modest and simple fellow, 
old Laissac. 

The sack was soon sufficiently full. He paused by 
the table in the dining room and helped himself to 
another swig of brandy, then he blinked his eyes. 
What else was there? Oh, yes, Grognard had said 
that there were a few of Madame’s jewels in the jewel 
case. But that was in the bedroom where Monsieur 
Delannelle was sleeping, that was a different matter, 
and yet after all, perhaps, a pity not to have the 
jewels! 

H’m, Monsieur Delannelle was in one of his drug 
stupours. It must be about two o’clock. They 
said he never woke till five or six. Why not? Be¬ 
sides what was a drugged man? He couldn’t give 
any trouble. If he tried to, Laissac could easily 
knock him over the head as he had young Briteuil— 
might just as well have those few extra jewels. His 


i 4 4 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

senses tingled rather more acutely as he once more 
crept upstairs. He pressed his ear to the keyhole 
of Monsieur Delannelle’s bedroom. The master 
of the house was still sleeping. 

He turned the handle quietly, listened, then stole 
into the room, closing the door after him. Now for 
it. He kept the play of his electric torch turned from 
the bed. The sleeper was breathing in an ugly, 
irregular way. He swept the light along the wall, 
and located the dressing-table—satinwood and silver 
fittings. A new piece of furniture—curse it! The 
top right-hand drawer was locked. And that was 
the drawer which the woman said contained the 
jewel case. Dare he force the lock? Was it worth 
it? He had done very well. Why not clear off* 
now? Madame had probably taken everything of 
worth. He hesitated and looked in the direction of 
the sleeper. Rich guzzling old pig! Why should he 
have all these comforts and luxuries whilst Laissac 
had to work hard and at such risk for his living? 
Be damned to him. He put down his sack and took a 
small steel tool out of his breast pocket. It was 
necessary to make a certain amount of noise, but 
after all the man in the bed wasn’t much better than 
a corpse. Laissac went down on his knees and 
applied himself to his task. 

The minutes passed. Confound it! It was a very 
obstinate lock. He was becoming quite immersed 
in its intricacy when something abruptly jarred his 
sensibilities. It was a question of silence. The 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


i45 

sleeper was no longer snoring or breathing violently. 
In fact he was making no noise at all. Laissac was 
aware of a queer tremor creeping down his spine for 
the first time that evening. He was a fool not to 
have cleared out after taking the cash box. He had 
overdone it. The man in bed was awake and watch¬ 
ing him! What was the best thing to do? Perhaps 
the fool had a revolver! If there was any trouble he 
must fight. He couldn’t allow himself to be taken, 
with that body down below stuffed behind the dust¬ 
bin. Why didn’t the tormentor call out or challenge 
him? Laissac crept lower and twisted his body into 
a crouching position. 

By this action he saved his life, for there was a 
sudden blinding flash, and a bullet struck the dress¬ 
ing-table just at the place where his head had been. 
This snapping of the tension was almost a relief. 
It was a joy to revert to the primitive instincts of 
self-preservation. At the foot of the bed an eider¬ 
down had fallen. Instinct drove him to snatch this 
up. He scrumpled it up into the rough form of a 
body and thrust it with his right hand over the end 
of the bed. Another bullet went through it and 
struck the dressing-table again. But as this hap¬ 
pened, Laissac, who had crept to the left side of the 
bed sprang across it and gripped the sleeper’s throat. 
The struggle was of momentary duration. The 
revolver dropped to the floor. The man addicted to 
drugs gasped, spluttered, then his frame shook 
violently and he crumpled into an inert mass upon 


146 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

the bed. A blind fury was upon Laissac. He struck 
the still cold thing again and again, then a revulsion 
of terror came over him. He crouched in the dark¬ 
ness, sweating with fear. 

“They’ll get me this time,” he thought* “Those 
shots must have been heard. Lisette, the other 
maid, the neighbours, the gendarmes . . . two 

of these disgusting bodies to account for. I’d better 
leave the swag and clear.” He drained the rest of 
the brandy and staggered uncertainly toward the 
door. The house was very still. He turned the 
handle and went into the passage. Then one of 
those voices which were always directing his life 
said: 

“Courage, old man, why leave the sack behind? 
You’ve worked for it. Besides, one might as well 
be hanged for a sheep as a lamb!” 

He went quietly back and picked up the sack. 
But his hands were shaking violently. As he was 
returning, the sack with its metallic contents struck 
the end of the brass bed. This little accident affected 
him fantastically. He was all fingers and thumbs 
to-night. What was the matter? Was he losing 
his nerve ? Getting old ? Of course, the time must 
come when—God! What was that? He stood 
dead still by the jamb of the door. There was the 
sound of the stealthy tread on the stairs, the distinct 
creak of a board. How often in his life had he not 
imagined that! But there was no question about 
it to-night. He was completely unstrung. 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 147 

“If there’s another fight I won’t be able to face it. 
I’m done.” 

An interminable interval of time passed, and 
then—that quiet creaking of another board, the 
person, whoever it was, was getting nearer. He 
struggled desperately to hold himself together, to be 
prepared for one more struggle, even if it should be 
his last. Suddenly a whisper came down the stairs: 

“Leon!” 

Leon! What did they mean? Eh? Oh, yes— 
Leon Briteuil! Of course that fool of a woman, the 
informer—Lisette. She thought it was Leon. Leon, 
her lover. He breathed more easily. Women have 
their uses and purposes after all. But he must be 
very circumspect. There must be no screaming. 
She repeated: 

“Leon, is that you?” 

With a great effort he controlled his voice. 

“It’s all right. I’m Leon’s friend. He’s outside.” 

The woman gave a little gasp of astonishment. 

“Oh! I did not know-” 

“Very quietly, mademoiselle. Compose yourself. 
I must now rejoin him. Everything is going well.” 

“ But I would see him. I wish to see him to-night. 
He promised-” 

Laissac hurried noiselessly down the stairs, thank¬ 
ful for the darkness. He waited till he had reached 
the landing below. Then he called up in a husky 
voice: 

“Wait till ten minutes after I have left the house, 


148 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

mademoiselle, then come down. You will find 
your Leon waiting for you behind the dust-bin in 
the yard.” 

And fortunately for Lisette’s momentary peace 
of mind she could not see the inhuman grin which 
accompanied this remark. 

From the moment of his uttering it till four hours 
later, when his mangled body was discovered by a 
gendarme on the pavement just below the window 
of the house in which he lived in the Place Duquesne, 
there is no definite record of old Laissac’s movements 
or whereabouts. 

It exists only in those realms of conjecture in 
which Monsieur Tolozan is so noted an explorer. 

Old Laissac had a genius for passing unnoticed. 
He could walk through the streets of Bordeaux in 
broad daylight with stolen clocks under each arm 
and it never occurred to any one to suspect him, but 
when it came to travelling in the dark he was unique. 
At the inquest, which was held five days later, not a 
single witness could come forward and say that they 
had seen anything of him either that evening or 
night. 

That highly eminent advocate, Maxim Colbert, 
president of the court, passed from the cool mortuary 
into the stuffy courthouse with a bored, preoccupied 
air. Dead bodies did not greatly interest him, and 
he had had too much experience of them to be 
nauseated by them—besides, an old criminal! It 
appeared to him a tedious and unnecessary waste 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


149 

of time. The old gentleman had something much 
more interesting occupying his mind. He was 
expecting his daughter-in-law to present his son with 
a child. The affair might happen now, any mo¬ 
ment, indeed, it might already have happened. Any 
moment a message might come with the good tid¬ 
ings. A son! Of course it must be a son! The 
line of Colbert tracing their genealogy back to the 
reign of Louis XIV—must be perpetuated. A 
distinguished family of advocates, generals, rulers 
of men. A son! It annoyed him a little in that 
he suspected that his own son was anxious to have a 
daughter. Bah! Selfishness. 

Let us see what is this case all about? Oh, yes, an 
old criminal named Theodore Laissac, aged fifty- 
seven, wanted by the police in connection with a 
mysterious crime at the villa of Monsieur and 
Madame Delannelle. The body found by a printer’s 
devil, named Adolp Roger, at 4:15 o’clock on the 
morning of the ninth, on the pavement of the Place 
Duquesne. Witness informed police. Sub-inspec¬ 
tor Floquette attested to the finding of body as 
indicated by witness. The position of body directly 
under attic window, five stories high, occupied by 
deceased, suggesting that he had fallen or thrown 
himself therefrom. Good! Quite clear. A life of 
crime, result—suicide. Will it be a boy or a girl? 
Let us have the deceased’s record. . . . 

A tall square-bearded inspector stood up in the 
body of the court, and in a sepulchral voice read out 


150 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

the criminal life record of Theodore Laissac. It 
was not pretty reading. It began at the age of 
seventeen with the murder of the Chinaman, Ching 
Loo, and from thence onward it revealed a deplorable 
story of villainy and depravity. The record of evil 
doings and the award of penalties became monoto¬ 
nous. The mind of Maxim Colbert wandered back 
to his son, and to his son's son. He had already 
seen the case in a nutshell and dismissed it. It 
would give him a pleasant opportunity a little later 
on. A homily on the wages of sin . . . a man 
whose life was devoted to evil-doing, in the end 
driven into a corner by the forces of justice, smitten 
by the demons of conscience, dies the coward’s 
death. A homily on cowardice, quoting a passage 
from Thomas a Kempis, excellent! . . . Would 
they send him a telegram ? Or would the news come 
by hand? What was that the Counsel for the Right 
of the Poor was saying? Chief Inspector Tolozan 
wished to give evidence. Ah, yes, why not? A 
worthy fellow, Inspector Tolozan. He had known 
him for many years, worked with him on many 
cases, an admirable, energetic officer, a little given 
to theorizing—an interesting fellow, though. He 
would cross-examine him himself. 

Inspector Tolozan took his place in the witness 
box, and bowed to the president. His steady gray 
eyes regarded the court thoughtfully as he tugged at 
his thin gray imperial. 

“Now, Inspector Tolozan, I understand that you 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 151 

have this district in which this—unfortunate affair 
took place, under your own special supervision ?” 

“Yes, monsieur le president .” 

“You have heard the evidence of the witnesses 
Roger and Floquette with regard to the finding of 
the body?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“Afterward, I understand, you made an inspection 
of the premises occupied by the deceased?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“At what time was that?” 

“At six-fifteen, monsieur.” 

“Did you arrive at any conclusions with regard to 
the cause or motive of the—er accident?” 

“Yes, monsieur le president .” 

“What conclusions did you come to?” 

“I came to the conclusion that the deceased, 
Theodore Laissac, met his death trying to save the 
life of a dog.” 

“A dog! Trying to save the life of a dog!” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

The president looked at the court, the court looked 
at the president and shuffled with papers, glancing 
apprehensively at the witness between times. There 
was no doubt that old Tolozan was becoming cranky, 
very cranky indeed. The president cleared his 
throat—was he to be robbed of his homily on the 
wages of sin? 

“Indeed, Monsieur Tolozan, you came to the con¬ 
clusion that the deceased met his death trying to 


152 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

save the life of a dog! Will you please explain to 
the c’ourt how you came to these conclusions ?” 

“Yes, monsieur le president; the deceased had a dog 
to which he was very devoted.” 

“Wait one moment, Inspector Tolozan, how do 
you know that he was devoted to this dog?” 

“I have seen him with it. Moreover, during the 
years he has been under my supervision he has 
always had a dog to which he was devoted. I could 
call some of his criminal associates to prove that, 
although he was frequently cruel to men, women, 
and even children, he would never strike or be un¬ 
kind to a dog. He would never burgle a house 
guarded by a dog in case he had to use violence.” 

“Proceed.” 

“During that day or evening there had apparently 
been a slight subsidence in the chimney place of the 
attic occupied by Laissac. Some brickwork had col¬ 
lapsed, leaving a narrow aperture just room enough 
for a dog to squeeze its body through, and get out on 
the sloping leads of the house next door. The widow 
Forbin, who occupies the adjoining attic, complains 
that she was kept awake for three hours that night by 
the whining of a dog on the leads above. This whin¬ 
ing ceased about three-thirty, which must have been 
the time that the deceased met his death. There 
w T as only one way for a man to get from his attic to 
these leads and that was a rain-water pipe, sloping 
from below the window at an angle of forty-five 
degrees to the roof next door. He could stand on 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


153 

this water pipe, but there was nothing to cling to 
except small projections of brick till he could 
scramble hold of the gutter above. He never reached 
the gutter.” 

“All of this is pure conjecture, of course, Inspector 
Tolozan?” 

“Not entirely, monsieur le president. My theory 
is that after Laissac’s departure, the dog became 
disconsolate and restless, as they often will, knowing 
by some mysterious instinct that its master is in 
danger. He tried to get out of the room and even¬ 
tually succeeded in forcing his way through the 
narrow aperture in the fireplace. His struggle getting 
through brought down some more brickwork and 
closed up the opening. This fact I have verified. 
Out on the sloping roof the dog naturally became 
terrified. There was no visible means of escape; 
the roof was sloping, and the night cold. Moreover, 
he seemed more cut off from his master than ever. 
As the widow, Forbin, asserts, he whined pitiably. 
Laissac returned some time after three o’clock. He 
reached the attic. The first thing he missed was 
the dog. He ran to the window and heard it whining 
on the roof above. Probably he hesitated for some 
time as to the best thing to do. The dog leaned over 
and saw him. He called to it to be quiet, but so 
agitated did it appear, hanging over the edge of that 
perilous slope, that Laissac thought every moment 
that it would jump. Monsieur le president , nearly 
every crime has been lain at the door of the deceased. 


154 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

but he has never been accused of lack of physical 
courage. Moreover, he was accustomed to climbing 
about buildings. He dropped through that window 
and started to climb up.” 

“How do you know this?” 

“I examined the water pipe carefully. The night 
was dry and there had not been rain for three days. 
Laissac had removed his boots. He knew that it 
would naturally be easier to walk along a pipe in his 
socks. There are the distinct marks of stockinged 
feet on the dusty pipes for nearly two metres of the 
journey. The body was bootless and the boots were 
found in the attic. But he was an old man for his 
age, and probably he had had an exhausting evening. 
He never quite reached the gutter.” 

“Are the marks on the gutter still there?” 

“No, but I drew the attention of three of my 
subordinates to the fact, and they are prepared to 
support my view. It rained the next day. The 
body of the dog was found by the side of its mas¬ 
ter.” 

“Indeed! Do you suggest that the dog—com¬ 
mitted suicide as it were?” 

Tolozan shrugged his shoulders and bowed. It 
was not his business to understand the psychology of 
dogs. He was merely giving evidence in support of 
his theories concerning the character of criminals— 
“birds”—and the accident of crime. 

Maxim Colbert was delighted. The whole case 
had been salvaged from the limbo of dull routine. 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 155 

He even forgave Tolozan for causing him to jetison 
those platitudes upon the wages of sin. He had 
made it interesting. Besides, he felt in a good 
humour—it would surely be a boy! The procedure 
of the court bored him, but he was noticeably cheer¬ 
ful, almost gay. He thanked the inspector profusely 
for his evidence. Once he glanced at the clock 
casually, and said in an impressive voice: 

“ Perhaps we may say of the deceased—he lived a 
vicious life, but he died not ingloriously.” 

The court broke up and he passed down into a 
quadrangle at the back where a pale sun filtered. 
Lawyers, ushers, court functionaries and police 
officials were scattering or talking in little groups. 
Standing outside a group he saw the spare figure of 
Inspector Tolozan. He touched his arm and smiled. 

“Well, my friend, you established an interesting 
case. I feel that the verdict was just, and yet I 
cannot see that it in any way corroborates your 
theory of the accident of crime.” 

Tolozan paused and blinked up at the sun. 

“It did not corroborate, perhaps, but it did noth¬ 
ing to-” 

“Well? This old man was an inveterate criminal. 
The fact that he loved a dog—it’s not a very great 
commendation. Many criminals do.” 

“ But they would not give their lives, monsieur. A 
man who would do that is capable of—I mean to say 
it was probably an accident that he was not a better 
man.” 



156 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“Possibly, possibly! But the record, my dear 
Tolozan! ,, 

“One may only conjecture.” 

“What is your conjecture?” 

Tolozan gazed dreamily up at the Gothic tracery 
of the adjoining chapel. Then he turned to Monsieur 
Colbert and said very earnestly: 

“You must remember that there was nothing 
against Laissac until the age of seventeen. He had 
been a boy of good character. His father was an 
honest wheelwright. At the age of seventeen the 
boy was to go to sea on the sailing ship La Turenne. 
Owing to some trouble with the customs authorities 
the sailing of the ship was delayed twenty-four 
hours. The boy was given shore leave. He hung 
about the docks. There was nothing to do. He 
had no money to spend on entertainment. My 
conjecture is this. Let us suppose it was a day like 
this, calm and sunny with a certain quiet exhilaration 
in the air. Eh ? The boy wanders around the 
quays and stares in the shops. Suddenly at the 
corner of the Rue Bayard he peeps down into a 
narrow gaily and beholds a sight which drives the 
blood wildly through his veins.” 

“What sight, Monsieur Tolozan?” 

“The Chinaman, Cheng Loo, being cruel to a dog.” 

“Ah! I see your implication.” 

“The boy sees red. There is the usual brawl and 
scuffle. He possibly does not realize his own strength. 
Follow the lawcourt and the penitentiary. Can you 


THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 


157 

not understand how such an eventuality would 
embitter him against society? To him in the here¬ 
after the dog would stand as the symbol of patient 
suffering, humanity as the tyrant. He would be 
at war for ever, an outcast, a derelict. He was raw, 
immature, uneducated. He was at the most recep¬ 
tive stage. His sense of justice was outraged. The 
penitentiary made him a criminal.” 

“Then from this you mean-” 

“I mean that if the good ship La Turenne had 
sailed to time, or if he had not been given those few 
hours’ leave, he might by this time have been a 
master mariner, or in any case a man who could 
look the world in the face. That is what I mean by 
the accident-” 

“Excuse me.” 

A messenger had handed Monsieur Colbert a 
telegram. He tore it open feverishly and glanced 
at the contents. An expression of annoyance crept 
over his features. He tore the form up in little 
pieces and threw it petulantly upon the ground. He 
glanced up at Tolozan absently as though he had 
seen him for the first time. Then he muttered 
vaguely: 

“The accident, eh? Oh, yes, yes. Quite so, 
quite so.” 

But he did not tell Inspector Tolozan what the 
telegram contained. 


“OLD FAGS” 


HE boys called him “Old Fags,” and the 



reason was not far to seek. He occupied 


a room in a block of tenements olf* Lisson 
Grove, bearing the somewhat grandiloquent title of 
Bolingbroke Buildings, and conspicuous among the 
many doubtful callings that occupied his time was 
one in which he issued forth with a deplorable old 
canvas sack, which, after a day’s peregrination along 
the gutters, he would manage to partly fill with cigar 
and cigarette ends. The exact means by which he 
managed to convert this patiently gathered garbage 
into the wherewithal to support his disreputable 
body nobody took the trouble to enquire. Neither 
were their interests any further aroused by the 
disposal of the contents of the same sack when he 
returned with the gleanings of dustbins distributed 
thoughtfully at intervals along certain thorough¬ 
fares by a maternal borough council. 

No one had ever penetrated to the inside of his 
room, but the general opinion in Bolingbroke Build¬ 
ings was that he managed to live in a state of com¬ 
fortable filth. And Mrs. Read, who lived in the 
room opposite, No. 477, with her four children was 
of opinion that “Old Fags ’ad ’oarded up a bit.” 


OLD FAGS” 


159 

He certainly never seemed to be behind with the 
payment of the weekly three-and-sixpence that 
entitled him to the sole enjoyment of No. 475, and 
when the door was opened, among the curious blend 
of odours that issued forth, that of onions and other 
luxuries of this sort was undeniable. 

Nevertheless, he was not a popular figure in the 
Buildings. Many, in fact, looked upon him as a 
social blot on the Bolingbroke escutcheon. The 
inhabitants were mostly labourers and their wives, 
charwomen and lady helps, dressmakers’ assistants, 
and several mechanics. There was a vague tentative 
effort among a great body of them to be a little 
respectable, and among some even to be clean. 

No such uncomfortable considerations hampered 
the movements of Old Fags. He was frankly and 
ostentatiously a social derelict. He had no pride 
and no shame. He shuffled out in the morning, his 
blotchy face covered with dirt and black hair, his 
threadbare green clothes tattered and in rags, the 
toes all too visible through his forlorn-looking boots. 
He was rather a large man with a fat, flabby person 
and a shiny face that was over-affable and bleary 
through a too constant attention to the gin bottle. 
He had a habit of ceaseless talk. He talked and 
chuckled to himself all the time, he talked to every 
one he met in an undercurrent of jeering affability. 
Sometimes he would retire to his room with a gin 
bottle for days together and then (the walls at Boling¬ 
broke Buildings are not very thick) he would be heard 


i6o MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


to talk and chuckle and snore alternately, until the 
percolating atmosphere of stewed onions heralded 
the fact that Old Fags was shortly on the war-path 
again. 

He would meet Mrs. Read with her children on 
the stairs and would mutter, “Oh, here we are 
again! All these dear little children been out for a 
walk, eh? Oh, these dear little children!” and he 
would pat one of them gaily on the head. 

And Mrs. Read would say: “’Ere, you keep your 
filthy ’ands off my kids, you dirty old swine, or I’ll 
catch you a swipe over the mouth!” 

And Old Fags would shuffle off muttering: “Oh, 
dear! Oh, dear! these dear little children! Oh, 
dear! Oh, dear!” 

And the boys would call after him and even throw 
orange peel and other things at him, but nothing 
seemed to disturb the serenity of Old Fags. Even 
when young Charlie Good threw a dead mouse that 
hit him on the chin he only said: “Oh, these boys! 
these boys /” 

Quarrels, noise and bad odours were the prevail¬ 
ing characteristics of Bolingbroke Buildings and 
Old Fags, though contributing in some degree to 
the latter quality, rode serenely through the other 
two in spite of multiform aggression. The pene¬ 
trating intensity of his onion stews had driven two 
lodgers already from No. 476, and was again a source 
of aggravation to the present holders, old Mrs. 
Birdie and her daughter Minnie. 


OLD FAGS 


161 


Minnie Birdie was what was known as a “tweeny ” 
at a house in Hyde Park Square, but she lived at 
home. Her mistress—to whom she had never spoken, 
being engaged by the housekeeper—was Mrs. 
Bastien-Melland, a lady who owned a valuable 
collection of little dogs. These little dogs somehow 
gave Minnie an unfathomable sense of respectability. 
She loved to talk about them. She told Mrs. Read 
that her mistress paid “’undreds and ’undreds of 
pahnds for each of them.” They were taken out 
every day by a groom on two leads of five—ten 
highly groomed, bustling, yapping, snapping, vicious 
little luxuries. Some had won prizes at dog shows, 
and two men were engaged for the sole purpose of 
ministering to their creature comforts. 

The consciousness of working in a house which 
furnished such an exhibition of festive cultivation 
brought into sharp relief the degrading social con¬ 
dition of her next room neighbour. 

Minnie hated Old Fags with a bitter hatred. She 
even wrote to a firm of lawyers who represented 
some remote landlord and complained of “the dirty 
habits of the old drunken wretch next door.” But 
she never received any answer to her complaint. 
It was known that Old Fags had lived there for seven 
years and paid his rent regularly. 

Moreover, on one critical occasion, Mrs. Read, 
who had periods of rheumatic gout, and could not 
work, had got into hopeless financial straits, having 
reached the very limit of her borrowing capacity, and 


162 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


being three weeks in arrears with her rent, Old Fags 
had come over and had insisted on lending her fifteen 
shillings! Mrs. Read eventually paid it back, and 
the knowledge of the transaction further accentuated 
her animosity toward him. 

One day Old Fags was returning from his dubious 
round and was passing through Hyde Park Square 
with his canvas bag slung over his back, when he ran 
into the cortege of little dogs under the control of 
Meads, the groom. 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” muttered Old Fags to 
himself. “What dear little dogs! H’m! What dear 
little dogs!” 

A minute later Minnie Birdie ran up the area steps 
and gave Meads a bright smile. 

“Good-night, Mr. Meads,” she said. 

Mr. Meads looked at her and said: “TJllo! you 
off?” 

“Yes!” she answered. 

“Oh, well,” he said, “Good-night! Be good!” 

They both sniggered and Minnie hurried down the 
street. Before she reached Lisson Grove Old Fags 
had caught her up. 

“I say,” he said, getting into her stride. “What 
dear little dogs those are! Oh, dear! what dear little 
dogs!” 

Minnie turned, and when she saw him her face 
flushed, and she said: “Oh, you go to hell!” with 
which unladylike expression she darted across the 
road and was lost to sight. 


“OLD FAGS” 163 

“Oh, these women!” said Old Fags to himself, 
“these women /” 

It often happened after that Old Fags's business 
carried him in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park 
Square, and he ran into the little dogs. One day 
he even ventured to address Meads, and to con¬ 
gratulate him on the beauty of his canine proteges, 
an attention that elicited a very unsympathetic 
response, a response, in fact, that amounted to being 
told to “clear off.” 

The incident of Old Fags running into this society 
was entirely accidental. It was due in part to the 
fact that the way lay through there to a tract of land 
in Paddington that Old Fags seemed to find pe¬ 
culiarly attractive. It was a neglected strip of 
ground by the railway that butted at one end on to a 
canal. It would have made quite a good siding 
but that it seemed somehow to have been overlooked 
by the railway company and to have become a dump¬ 
ing ground for tins and old refuse from the houses in 
the neighbourhood of Harrow Road. Old Fags 
would spend hours there alone with his canvas bag. 

When winter came on there was a great wave of 
what the papers call “economic unrest.” There 
were strikes in three great industries, a political 
upheaval, and a severe “tightening of the money 
market.” All these misfortunes reacted on Boling- 
broke Buildings. The dwellers became even more 
impecunious, and consequently more quarrelsome, 
more noisy and more malodorous. Rents were all in 


164 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

arrears, ejections were the order of the day, and bor¬ 
rowing became a tradition rather than an actuality. 
Want and hunger brooded over the dejected buildings. 
But still Old Fags came and went, carrying his shame¬ 
less gin and permeating the passages with his onion 
stews. 

Old Mrs. Birdie became bedridden and the support 
of room No. 476 fell on the shoulders of Minnie. 
The wages of a “tweeny” are not excessive, and the 
way in which she managed to support herself and 
her invalid mother must have excited the wonder 
of the other dwellers in the building if they had not 
had more pressing affairs of their own to wonder 
about. Minnie was a short, sallow little thing, with 
a rather full figure, and heavy gray eyes that some¬ 
how conveyed a sense of sleeping passion. She had 
a certain instinct for dress, a knack of putting some 
trinket in the right place, and of always being neat. 

Mrs. Bastien-Melland had one day asked who she 
was. On being informed, her curiosity did not 
prompt her to push the matter further, and she did 
not speak to her, but the incident gave Minnie a 
better standing in the domestic household at Hyde 
Park Square. It was probably this attention that 
caused Meads, the head dog-groom, to cast an eye 
in her direction. It is certain that he did so, and, 
moreover, on a certain Thursday evening had taken 
her to a cinema performance in the Edgware Road. 
Such attention naturally gave rise to discussion and 
alas! to jealousy, for there was an under housemaid 


“OLD FAGS” 165 

and even a lady’s maid who were not impervious to 
the attentions of the good-looking groom. 

When Mrs. Bastien-Melland went to Egypt in 
January she took only three of the small dogs with 
her, for she could not be bothered with the society of 
a groom, and three dogs were as many as her two 
maids could spare time for after devoting their 
energies to Mrs. Bastien-Melland’s toilette. Conse¬ 
quently, Meads was left behind, and was held directly 
responsible for seven, five Chows and two Pekinese, 
or, as he expressed it, “over a thousand pounds worth 
of dogs.” 

It was a position of enormous responsibility. 
They had to be fed on the very best food, all care¬ 
fully prepared and cooked and in small quantities. 
They had to be taken for regular exercise and washed 
in specially prepared condiments. Moreover, at the 
slightest symptom of indisposition he was to tele¬ 
phone to Sir Andrew Fossiter, the great veterinary 
specialist, in Hanover Square. It is not to be 
wondered at that Meads became a person of con¬ 
siderable standing and envy, and that little Minnie 
Birdie was intensely flattered when he occasionally 
condescended to look in her direction. She had been 
in Mrs. Bastien-Melland’s service now for seven 
months and the attentions of the dog-groom had not 
only been a matter of general observation for some 
time past, but had become a subject of reckless mirth 
and innuendo among the other servants. 

One night she was hurrying home. Her mother 


166 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


had been rather worse than usual of late, and she was 
carrying a few scraps that the cook had given her. 
It was a wretched night and she was not feeling well 
herself, a mood of tired dejection possessed her. She 
crossed the drab street off Lisson Grove and as she 
reached the curb her eye lighted on Old Fags. He 
did not see her. He was walking along the gutter 
patting the road occasionally with his stick. 

She had not spoken to him since the occasion we 
have mentioned. For once he was not talking: his 
eyes were fixed in listless apathy on the road. As he 
passed she caught the angle of his chin silhouetted 
against the window of a shop. For the rest of her 
walk the haunting vision of that chin beneath the 
drawn cheeks, and the brooding hopelessness of 
those sunken eyes, kept recurring to her. Perhaps 
in some remote past he had been as good to look upon 
as Meads, the groom! Perhaps some one had cared 
for him! She tried to push this thought from her, but 
some chord in her nature seemed to have been 
awakened and to vibrate with an unaccountable 
sympathy toward this undesirable fellow-lodger. 

She hurried home and in the night was ill. She 
could not go to Mrs. Melland’s for three days and 
she wanted the money badly. When she got about 
again she was subject to fainting fits and sickness. 
On one such occasion, as she was going upstairs, at 
the Buildings, she felt faint, and leant against the 
wall just as Old Fags was going up. He stopped 
and said: “Hullo, now, what are we doing? Oh, 


“OLD FAGS 


1 67 

dear! Oh, dear!” and she said: “It’s all right, old 
’un.” These were the kindest words she had ever 
spoken to Old Fags. 

During the next month there were strange symp¬ 
toms about Minnie Birdie that caused considerable 
comment, and there were occasions when old Mrs. 
Birdie pulled herself together and became the active 
partner and waited on Minnie. On one such oc¬ 
casion Old Fags came home late and, after drawing 
a cork, varied his usual programme of talking and 
snoring by singing in a maudlin key, and old Mrs. 
Birdie came banging at his door and shrieked out: 

“Stop your row, you old-. My daughter is ill. 

Can’t you hear?” And Old Fags came to his door 
and blinked at her and said: “Ill, is she? Oh, dear! 
Oh, dear! Would she like some stew, eh?” And 
old Mrs. Birdie said: “No, she don’t want any of your 
muck,” and bundled back. But they did not hear 
any more of Old Fags that night or any other night 
when Minnie came home queer. 

Early in March Minnie got the sack from Hyde 
Park Square. Mrs. Melland was still away, having 
decided to winter in Rome; but the housekeeper 
assumed the responsibility of this action, and in 
writing to Mrs. Melland justified the course she had 
taken by saying that “she could not expect the other 
maids to work in the same house with an unmarried 
girl in that condition.” Mrs. Melland, whose letter 
in reply was full of the serious illness of poor little 
Anisette (one of the Chows), that she had suffered 


168 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

in Egypt on account of a maid giving it too much 
rice with its boned chicken, and how much better it 
had been in Rome under the treatment of Doctor 
Lascati, made no special reference to the question of 
Minnie Birdie, only saying that “she was so sorry if 
Mrs. Bellingham was having trouble with these 
tiresome servants.” 

The spring came and the summer, and the two 
inhabitants of Room 476 eked out their miserable 
existence. One day Minnie would pull herself 
together and get a day’s charing, and occasionally 
Mrs. Birdie would struggle along to a laundry in 
Maida Vale where a benevolent proprietress would 
pay her one shilling and threepence to do a day’s 
ironing, for the old lady was rather neat with her 
hands. And once when things were very desperate 
the brother of a nephew from Walthamstow turned 
up. He was a small cabinet maker by trade, and he 
agreed to allow them three shillings a week “till 
things righted themselves a bit.” But nothing was 
seen of Meads, the groom. One night Minnie was 
rather worse and the idea occurred to her that she 
would like to send a message to him. It was right 
that he should know. He had made no attempt to 
see her since she had left Mrs. Melland’s service. 
She lay awake thinking of him and wondering how 
she could send a message, when she suddenly thought 
of Old Fags. He had been quiet of late, whether the 
demand for cigarette ends was abating and he could 
not afford the luxuries that their disposal seemed to 


"OLD FAGS ” 169 

supply, or whether he was keeping quiet for any 
ulterior reason she was not able to determine. 

In the morning she sent her mother across to ask 
him if he would “ oblige by calling at Hyde Park 
Square and asking Mr. Meads if he would oblige by 
calling at 476, Bolingbroke Buildings, to see Miss 
Birdie.” There is no record of how Old Fags de¬ 
livered this message, but it is known that that same 
afternoon Mr. Meads did call. He left about three- 
thirty in a great state of perturbation and in a very 
bad temper. He passed Old Fags on the stairs, and 
the only comment he made was: “I never have any 
luck! God help me!” and he did not return, al¬ 
though he had apparently promised to do so. 

In a few weeks’ time the position of the occupants 
of Room 476 became desperate. It was, in fact, a 
desperate time all round. Work was scarce and 
money scarcer. Waves of ill-temper and depression 
swept Bolingbroke Buildings. Mrs. Read had gone 
—heaven knows where. Even Old Fags seemed 
at the end of his tether. True, he still managed to 
secure his inevitable bottle, but the stews became 
scarcer and less potent. All Mrs. Birdie’s time and 
energy were taken up in nursing Minnie, and the 
two somehow existed on the money now increased 
to four shillings a week, which the sympathetic 
cabinet maker from Walthamstow allowed them. 
The question of rent was shelved. Four shillings a 
week for two people means ceaseless gnawing hunger. 
The widow and her daughter lost pride and hope, and 


170 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

further messages to Mr. Meads failed to elicit any 
response. The widow became so desperate that she 
even asked Old Fags one night if he could spare a 
little stew for her daughter who was starving The 
pungent odour of the hot food was too much for her. 
Old Fags came to the door. 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he said. “What trouble 
there is! Let’s see what we can do!” 

He messed about for some time and then took it 
across to them. It was a strange concoction. Meat 
that it would have been difficult to know what to ask 
for at the butcher’s, and many bones, but the onions 
seemed to pull it together. To any one starving it 
was good. After that it became a sort of established 
thing—whenever Old Fags had a stew he sent some 
over to the widow and daughter. But apparently 
things were not doing too well in the cigarette end 
trade, for the stews became more and more inter¬ 
mittent, and sometimes were desperately “boney.” 

And then one night a terrible climax was reached. 
Old Fags was awakened in the night by fearful 
screams. There was a district nurse in the next 
room, and also a student from a great hospital. 
No one knows how it all affected Old Fags. He 
went out at a very unusual hour in the early morn¬ 
ing, and seemed more garrulous and meandering 
in his speech. He stopped the widow in the passage 
and mumbled incomprehensible solicitude. Minnie 
was very ill for three days, but she recovered, faced 
by the insoluble proposition of feeding three mouths 


“OLD FAGS ” 171 

instead of two, and two of them requiring enormous 
quantities of milk. 

This terrible crisis brought out many*good qualities 
in various people. The cabinet maker sent ten 
shillings extra and others came forward as though 
driven by some race instinct. Old Fags disappeared 
for ten days after that. It was owing to an un¬ 
fortunate incident in Hyde Park when he insisted 
on sleeping on a flower bed with a gin-bottle under 
his left arm, and on account of the uncompromising 
attitude that he took up toward a policeman in the 
matter. When he returned things were assuming 
their normal course. Mrs. Birdie’s greeting w*as: 

“Ullo, old ’un, we’ve missed your stoos.” 

But Old Fags had undoubtedly secured a more 
stable position in the eyes of the Birdies, and one day 
he was even allowed to see the baby. 

He talked to it from the door. “Oh, dear! Oh, 
dear!” he said. “What a beautiful little baby! 
What a dear little baby! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” 

The baby shrieked with unrestrained terror at 
sight of him, but that night some more stew was sent 
in. 

Then the autumn came on. People whose ro¬ 
mantic instincts had been touched at the arrival of 
the child gradually lost interest and fell away. The 
cabinet maker from Walthamstow wrote a long letter 
saying that after next week the payment of the four 
shillings would have to stop. He “hoped he had 
been of some help in their trouble, but that things 


172 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

were going on all right now. Of course he had to 
think of his own family first,” and so on. The 
lawyers of the remote landlord, who was assiduously 
killing stags in Scotland, “ regretted that their client 
could not see his way to allow any further delay in the 
matter of the payment of rent due.” The position 
of the Birdie family became once more desperate. 
Old Mrs. Birdie had become frailer, and though 
Minnie could now get about she found work difficult 
to obtain, owing to people’s demand for a character 
from the last place. Their thoughts once more 
reverted to Meads, and Minnie lay in wait for him 
one morning as he was taking the dogs out. There 
was a very trying scene ending in a very vulgar 
quarrel, and Minnie came home and cried all the rest 
of the day and through half the night. Old Fags’s 
stews became scarcer and less palatable. He, too, 
seemed in dire straits. 

We now come to an incident that we are ashamed 
to say owes its inception to the effect of alcohol. It 
was a wretched morning in late October, bleak and 
foggy. The blue-gray corridors of Bolingbroke 
Buildings seemed to exude damp. The strident 
voices of the unkempt children quarrelling in the 
courtyard below permeated the whole Buildings. 
The strange odour that was its characteristic lay 
upon it like the foul breath of some evil god. All 
its inhabitants seemed hungry, wretched and vile. 
Their lives of constant protest seemed for the mo¬ 
ment lulled to a sullen indifference, whilst they 


OLD FAGS 


huddled behind their gloomy doors and listened to 
the rancorous railings of their offspring. The widow 
Birdie and her daughter sat silently in their room. 
The child was asleep. It had had its milk, and it 
would have to have its milk whatever happened. 
The crumbs from the bread the women had had at 
breakfast lay ungathered on the bare table. They 
were both hungry and very desperate. There was a 
knock at the door, Minnie went to it, and there stood 
Old Fags. He leered at them meekly and under his 
arm carried a gin-bottle three parts full. 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he said. “What a 
dreadful day! What a dreadful day! Will you have 
a little drop of gin to comfort you? Now! What 
do you say?” 

Minnie looked at her mother; in other days the 
door would have been slammed in his face, but Old 
Fags had certainly been kind in the matter of the 
stews. They asked him to sit down. Then old Mrs. 
Birdie did accept “just a tiny drop” of gin, and they 
both persuaded Minnie to have a little. Now 
neither of the women had had food of any worth for 
days, and the gin went straight to their heads. It 
was already in Old Fags's head firmly established. 
The three immediately became garrulous. They 
all talked volubly and intimately. The women 
railed Old Fags about his dirt, but allowed that 
he had “a good ’eart.” They talked longingly 
and lovingly about his “stoos,” and Old Fags 
said: 


174 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“Well, my dears, you shall have the finest stoo 
you’ve ever had in your lives to-night.” 

He repeated this nine times, only each time the 
whole sentence sounded like one word. Then the 
conversation drifted to the child, and the hard lot 
of parents, and by a natural sequence to Meads, its 
father. Meads was discussed with considerable 
bitterness, and the constant reiteration of the threat 
by the women that they meant “to ’ave the lor on 
’im all right,” mingled with the jeering sophistries 
of Old Fags on the “genalman’s behaviour,” and the 
impossibility of expecting “a dog-groom to be sports¬ 
man,” lasted a considerable time. 

Old Fags talked expansively about “leaving it to 
him,” and somehow as he stood there with his large 
puffy figure looming up in the dimly lighted room, 
and waving his long arms, he appeared to the women 
a figure of portentous significance. He typified 
powers they had not dreamt of. Under the veneer 
of his hide-bound depravity Minnie seemed to detect 
some slow-moving force trying to assert itself. He 
meandered on in a vague monologue, using terms and 
expressions they did not know the meaning of. He 
gave the impression of some fettered animal launch¬ 
ing a fierce indictment against the fact of its life. 
At last he took up the gin-bottle and moved to the 
door and then leered round the room. “You shall 
have the finest stoo you’ve ever had in your life to¬ 
night, my dears!” He repeated this seven times 
again and then went heavily out. 


OLD FAGS 


i 7 S 

That afternoon a very amazing fact was observed 
by several inhabitants of Bolingbroke Buildings. 
Old Fags washed his face! He went out about three 
o’clock without his sack. His face had certainly 
been cleaned up and his clothes seemed in some 
mysterious fashion to hold together. He went 
across Lisson Grove and made for Hyde Park Square. 
He hung about for nearly an hour at the corner, and 
then he saw a man come up the area steps of a house 
on the south side and walk rapidly away. Old Fags 
followed him. He took a turning sharp to the left 
through a mews and entered a narrow street at the 
end. There he entered a deserted-looking pub. kept 
by an ex-butler and his wife. He passed right 
through to a room at the back and called for some 
beer. Before it was brought Old Fags was seated at 
the next table ordering gin. 

“Dear, oh dear! what a wretched day!” said Old 
Fags. 

The groom grunted assent. But Old Fags was not 
to be put off by mere indifference. He broke ground 
on one or two subjects that interested the groom, 
one subject in particular being dog. He seemed to 
have a profound knowledge of dog, and before Mr. 
Meads quite realized what was happening he was 
trying gin in his beer at Old Fags’s expense. The 
groom was feeling particularly morose that after¬ 
noon. His luck seemed out. Bookmakers had 
appropriated several half-crowns that he sorely 
begrudged, and he had other expenses. The beer- 


176 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

gin mixture comforted him, and the rambling elo¬ 
quence of the old fool who seemed disposed to be 
content paying for drinks and talking, fitted in with 
his mood. 

They drank and talked for a full hour, and at 
length got to a subject that all men get to sooner or 
later if they drink and talk long enough—the subject 
of woman. Mr. Meads became confiding and 
philosophic. He talked of women in general and 
what triumphs and adventures he had had among 
them in particular. But what a trial and tribulation 
they had been to him in spite of all. Old Fags 
winked knowingly and was splendidly compre¬ 
hensive and tolerant of Meads’s peccadillos. 

“It’s all a game,” said Meads. “You’ve got to 
manage ’em. There ain’t much I don’t know, old 
bird!” 

Then suddenly Old Fags leaned forward in the 
dark room and said: 

“No, Mr. Meads, but you ought to play the game 
you know. Oh, dear, yes!” 

“What do you mean, Mister Meads?" said that 
gentleman sharply. 

“Minnie Birdie, eh? you haven’t mentioned 
Minnie Birdie yet!” said Old Fags. 

“What the devil are you talking about?” said 
Meads drunkenly. 

“She’s starving,” said Old Fags, “starving, 
wretched, alone with her old mother and your child. 
Oh, dear! yes, it’s terrible!” 


OLD FAGS 


Meads's eyes flashed with a sullen frenzy, but fear 
was gnawing at his heart, and he felt more disposed 
to placate this mysterious old man than to quarrel 
with him. 

“I tell you I have no luck,” he said after a pause. 
Old Fags looked at him gloomily and ordered some 
more gin. When it was brought he said: 

“You ought to play the game, you know, Mr. 
Meads—after all—luck? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! 
Would you rather be the woman? Five shillings 
a week you know would-” 

“No, I’m damned if I do!” cried Meads fiercely. 
“It's all right for all these women. Gawd! How 
do I know if it's true? Look here, old bird, do you 
know I’m already done in for two five bobs a week, 
eh? One up in Norfolk and the other at Enfield. 

Ten shillings a week of my-money goes to these 

blasted women. No fear, no more, I’m through with 
it!” 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” said Old Fags, and he 
moved a little further into the shadow of the room 
and watched the groom out of the depths of his 
sunken eyes. But Meads’s courage was now fortified 
by the fumes of a large quantity of fiery alcohol, and 
he spoke witheringly of women in general and seemed 
disposed to quarrel if Old Fags disputed his right 
to place them in the position that Meads considered 
their right and natural position. But Old Fags 
gave no evidence of taking up the challenge: on the 
contrary he seemed to suddenly shift his ground. 


178 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

He grinned and leered and nodded at Meads’s string 
of coarse sophistry, and suddenly he touched him 
on the arm and looked round the room and said very 
confidentially: 

“Oh, dear! yes, Mr. Meads. Don’t take too much 
to heart what I said.” 

And then he sniffed and whispered: 

“I could put you on to a very nice thing, Mr. 
Meads. I could introduce you to a lady I know 
would take a fancy to you, and you to her. Oh, dear, 
yes!” 

Meads pricked up his ears like a fox-terrier and his 
small eyes glittered. 

“Oh!” he said. “Are you one of those, eh, old 
bird? Who is she?” 

Old Fags took out a piece of paper and fumbled 
with a pencil. He then wrote down a name and 
address somewhere at Shepherd’s Bush. 

“What’s a good time to call?” said Meads. 

“Between six and seven,” answered Old Fags. 

“Oh, hell!” said Meads, “I can’t do it. I’ve got 
to get back and take the dogs out at half-past five, 
old bird. From half-past five to half-past six. The 
missus is back, she’ll kick up a hell of a row.” 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” said Old Fags. “What a 
pity! The young lady is going away, too!” 

He thought for a moment, and then an idea seemed 
to strike him. 

“Look here, would you like me to meet you and 
take the dogs round the park till you return?” 


“OLD FAGS” 


179 

“What!” said Meads. “Trust you with a thou¬ 
sand pounds' worth of dogs! Not much!” 

“No, no, of course not, I hadn't thought of that!” 
said Old Fags humbly. 

Meads looked at him, and it is very difficult to tell 
what it was about the old man that gave him a sud¬ 
den feeling of complete trust. The ingenuity of his 
speech, the ingratiating confidence that a mixture 
of beer-gin gives, tempered by the knowledge that 
famous pedigree Pekinese would be almost impossible 
to dispose of, perhaps it was a combination of these 
motives. In any case a riotous impulse drove him to 
fall in with Old Fags’s suggestion, and he made the 
appointment for half-past five. 

***** 

Evening had fallen early, and a fine rain was driv¬ 
ing in fitful gusts when the two met at the corner of 
Hyde Park. There were ten little dogs on their 
lead, and Meads with a cap pulled close over his 
eyes. 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried Old Fags as he 
approached. “What dear little dogs! What dear 
little dogs!” 

Meads handed the lead over to Old Fags, and 
asked more precise instructions of the way to get to 
the address. 

“What are you wearing that canvas sack inside 
your coat for, old bird, eh ?” asked Meads, when these 
instructions had been given. 


i8o MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


“Oh, my dear sir,” said Old Fags. “If you had the 
asthma like I get it, and no underclothes on these 
damp days! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” 

He wheezed drearily and Meads gave him one or 
two more exhortations about the extreme care and 
tact he was to observe. 

“Be very careful with that little Chow on the left 
lead. ’E’s got his coat on, see? ’E’s ’ad a chill and 
you must keep ’im on the move. Gently, see?” 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Poor little chap! What’s 
his name?” said Old Fags. 

“Pelleas,” answered Mr. Meads. 

“Oh, poor little Pelleas! Poor little Pelleas! 
Come along. You won’t be too long, Mr. Meads, 
will you?” 

“You bet I won’t,” said the groom, and nodding 
he crossed the road rapidly and mounting a Shep¬ 
herd’s Bush motor-bus he set out on his journey to an 
address that didn’t exist. 

Old Fags ambled slowly round the Park, snuffling 
and talking to the dogs. He gauged the time when 
Meads would be somewhere about Queen’s Road, 
then he ambled slowly back to the point from which 
he had started. With extreme care he piloted the 
small army across the high road and led them in the 
direction of Paddington. He drifted with leisurely 
confidence through a maze of small streets. Several 
people stopped and looked at the dogs, and the boys 
barked and mimicked them, but nobody took the 
trouble to look at Old Fags. At length he came to a 


OLD FJGS” 


181 


district where their presence seemed more con¬ 
spicuous. Rows of squalid houses and advertise¬ 
ment hoardings. He slightly increased his pace, 
and a very stout policeman standing outside a funeral 
furnisher’s glanced at him with a vague suspicion. 
However, in strict accordance with an ingrained 
officialism that hates to act “without instructions,” 
he let the cortege pass. Old Fags wandered through 
a wretched street that seemed entirely peopled by 
children. Several of them came up and followed 
the dogs. 

“Dear little dogs, aren’t they? Oh my, yes, dear 
little dogs!” he said to the children. At last he 
reached a broad gloomy thoroughfare with low 
irregular buildings on one side, and an interminable 
length of hoardings on the other that screened a strip 
of land by the railway—land that harboured a wilder¬ 
ness of tins and garbage. Old Fags led the dogs 
along by the hoarding. It was very dark. Three 
children, who had been following, tired of the pastime, 
had drifted away. He went along once more. There 
was a gap in a hoarding on which was notified that 
“Pogram’s Landaulettes could be hired for the even¬ 
ing at an inclusive fee of two guineas. Telephone, 
47901 Mayfair.” 

The meagre light from a street lamp thirty yards 
away revealed a colossal coloured picture of a very 
beautiful young man and woman stepping out of a 
car and entering a gorgeous restaurant, having 
evidently just enjoyed the advantage of this peerless 


182 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


luxury. Old Fags went on another forty yards and 
then returned. There was no one in sight. 

“Oh, dear little dogs,” he said. “Oh, dear! Oh, 
dear! What dear little dogs! Just through here, 
my pretty pets. Gentle, Pelleas! Gently, very 
gently! There, there, there! Oh, what dear little 
dogs!” 

He stumbled forward through the quagmire of 
desolation, picking his way as though familiar with 
every inch of ground, to the further corner where it 
was even darker, and where the noise of shunting 
freight trains drowned every other murmur of the 
night. 


It was eight o’clock when Old Fags reached his 
room in Bolingbroke Buildings carrying his heavily 
laden sack across his shoulders. The child in Room 
476 had been peevish and fretful all the afternoon and 
the two women were lying down exhausted. They 
heard Old Fags come in. He seemed very busy, 
banging about with bottles and tins and alternately 
coughing and wheezing. But soon the potent 
aroma of onions reached their nostrils and they knew 
he was preparing to keep his word. 

At nine o’clock he staggered across with a steaming 
saucepan of hot stew. In contrast to the morning’s 
conversation, which though devoid of self-conscious¬ 
ness, had taken on at times an air of moribund 


“OLD FJGS” 


183 

analysis, making little stabs at fundamental things, 
the evening passed off on a note of almost joyous 
levity. The stew was extremely good to the starving 
women, and Old Fags developed a vein of fantastic 
pleasantry. He talked unceasingly, sometimes on 
things they understood, sometimes on matters of 
which they were entirely ignorant and sometimes he 
appeared to them obtuse, maudlin and incoherent. 

Nevertheless he brought to their room a certain 
light-hearted raillery that had never visited it be¬ 
fore. No mention was made of Meads. The only 
blemish to the serenity of this bizarre supper party 
was that Old Fags developed intervals of violent 
coughing, intervals when he had to walk around the 
room and beat his chest. These fits had the un¬ 
fortunate result of waking the baby. When this 
undesirable result had occurred for the fourth time 
Old Fags said: 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! This won’t do! Oh, no, 
this won’t do. I must go back to my hotel!” a 
remark that caused paroxysms of mirth to old Mrs. 
Birdie. 

Nevertheless, Old Fags retired and it was then 
just on eleven o’clock. The women went to bed, and 
all through the night Minnie heard the old man 
coughing. And while he is lying in this unfortunate 
condition let us follow the movements of Mr. Meads. 

Meads jumped off the ’bus at Shepherd’s Bush and 
hurried quickly in the direction that Old Fags had 
instructed him. He asked three people for the 


184 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

Pomeranian Road before an errand boy told him that 
he “believed it was somewhere off* Giles Avenue,” 
but at Giles Avenue no one seemed to know it. He 
retraced his steps in a very bad temper and en¬ 
quired again. Five other people had never heard of 
it. So he went to a post office and a young lady in 
charge informed him that there was no such road in 
the neighbourhood. 

He tried other roads whose names vaguely re¬ 
sembled it, then he came to the conclusion “that that 
blamed old fool had made a silly mistake.” He took 
a 'bus back with a curious fear gnawing at the pit 
of his stomach, a fear that he kept thrusting back; 
he dare not allow himself to contemplate it. It was 
nearly seven-thirty when he got back to Hyde Park 
and his eye quickly scanned the length of railing near 
which Old Fags was to be. Immediately that he 
saw no sign of him or the little dogs, a horrible feeling 
of physical sickness assailed him. The whole truth 
flashed through his mind. He saw the fabric of his 
life crumble to dust. He was conscious of visions of 
past acts and misdeeds tumbling over each other in 
a furious kaleidoscope. 

The groom was terribly frightened. Mrs. Bastien- 
Melland would be in at eight o’clock to dinner, and 
the first thing she would ask for would be the little 
dogs. They were never supposed to go out after 
dark, but he had been busy that afternoon and 
arranged to take them out later. How was he to 
account for himself and their loss? He visualized 


OLD FAGS ” 


185 

himself in a dock, and all sorts of other horrid things 
coming up—a forged character, an affair in Norfolk 
and another at Enfield, and a little trouble with a 
bookmaker seven years ago. For he felt convinced 
that the dogs had gone for ever, and Old Fags with 
them. 

He cursed blindly in his soul at his foul luck and 
the wretched inclination that had lured him to drink 
“beer-gin” with the old thief. Forms of terrific 
vengeance passed through his mind, if he should 
meet the old devil again. In the meantime what 
should he do ? He had never even thought of making 
Old Fags give him any sort of address. He dared 
not go back to Hyde Park Square without the dogs. 
He ran breathlessly up and down peering in every 
direction. Eight o’clock came and there was still 
no sign! Suddenly he remembered Minnie Birdie. 
He remembered that the old ruffian had mentioned 
and seemed to know Minnie Birdie. It was a con¬ 
nection that he had hoped to have wiped out of his 
life, but the case was desperate. 

Curiously enough, during his desultory courtship 
of Minnie he had never been to her home, but on the 
only occasion when he had visited it, after the birth 
of the child, he had done so under the influence of 
three pints of beer, and he hadn’t the faintest recol¬ 
lection now of the number or the block. He hurried 
there, however, in feverish trepidation. Now Boling- 
broke Buildings harbour some eight hundred people, 
and it is a remarkable fact that although the Birdies 


186 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


had lived there about a year, of the eleven people 
that Meads asked not one happened to know the 
name. People develop a profound sense of self¬ 
concentration in Bolingbroke Buildings. Meads 
wandered up all the stairs and through the slate-tile 
passages. Twice he passed their door without 
knowing it: on the first occasion only five minutes 
after Old Fags had carried a saucepan of steaming 
stew from No. 475 to No. 476. 

At ten o’clock he gave it up. He had four shillings 
on him and he adjourned to a small “pub.” hard by 
and ordered a tankard of ale, and, as an afterthought, 
three pennyworth of gin which he mixed in it. 
Probably he thought that this mixture, which was 
so directly responsible for the train of tragic circum¬ 
stances that encompassed him, might continue to 
act in some manner toward a more desirable con¬ 
clusion. It did indeed drive him to action of a sort, 
for he sat there drinking and smoking Navy Cut 
cigarettes, and by degrees he evolved a most engaging 
but impossible story of being lured to the river by 
three men and chloroformed, and when he came to, 
finding that the dogs and the men had gone. He 
drank a further quantity of “ beer-gin ” and rehearsed 
his role in detail, and at length brought himself to the 
point of facing Mrs. Bastien-Melland. . . . 

It was the most terrifying ordeal of his life. The 
servants frightened him for a start. They almost 
shrieked when they saw him and drew back. Mrs. 
Bastien-Melland had left word that he was to go to a 


OLD FAGS 


187 

breakfast-room in the basement directly he came in 
and she would see him. There was a small dinner 
party on that evening and an agitated game of bridge. 
Meads had not stood on the hearthrug of the break- 
fast-room two minutes before he heard the foreboding 
swish of skirts, the door burst open and Mrs. Bastien- 
Melland stood before him, a thing of penetrating 
perfumes, high-lights and trepidation. 

She just said “Well!” and fixed her hard bright 
eyes on him. Meads launched forth into his im¬ 
probable story, but he dared not look at her. He 
tried to gather together the pieces of the tale he had 
so carefully rehearsed in the “pub.,” but he felt like 
some helpless bark at the mercy of a hostile battle 
fleet, the searchlights of Mrs. Melland’s cruel eyes 
were concentrated on him, while a flotilla of small 
diamonds on her heaving bosom winked and glittered 
with a dangerous insolence. He was stumbling over 
a phrase about the effects of chloroform when he 
became aware that Mrs. Melland was not listening 
to the matter of his story, she was only concerned 
with the manner. Her lips were set and her strain¬ 
ing eyes insisted on catching his. He looked full at 
her and caught his breath and stopped. 

Mrs. Melland still staring at him was moving 
slowly to the door. A moment of panic seized him. 
He mumbled something and also moved toward the 
door. Mrs. Melland was first to grip the handle. 
Meads made a wild dive and seized her wrist. But 
Mrs. Bastien-Melland came of a hard-riding York- 


188 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


shire family. She did not lose her head. She 
struck him across the mouth with her flat hand, and 
as he reeled back she opened the door and called to 
the servants. Suddenly Meads remembered that 
the rooms had a French window on to the gar¬ 
den. He pushed her clumsily against the door and 
sprang across the room. He clutched wildly at 
the bolts while Mrs. Melland’s voice was ringing 
out: 

“Catch that man! Hold him! Catch thief!” 

But before the other servants had had time to 
arrive he managed to get through the door and to pull 
it to after him. His hand was bleeding with cuts 
from broken glass but he leapt the wall and got into 
the shadow of some shrubs three gardens away. 
He heard whistles blowing and the dominant voice of 
Mrs. Melland directing a hue and cry. He rested 
some moments, then panic seized him and he 
laboured over another wall and found the passage 
of a semi-detached house. A servant opened a door 
and looked out and screamed. He struck her 
wildly and unreasonably on the shoulder and rushed 
up some steps and got into a front garden. There 
was no one there and he darted into the street and 
across the road. 

In a few minutes he was lost in a labyrinth of back 
streets and laughing hysterically to himself. He had 
two shillings and eightpence on him. He spent 
fourpence of this on whisky, and then another four- 
pence just before the pubs, closed. He struggled 


“OLD FAGS” 


189 

vainly to formulate some definite plan of campaign. 
The only point that seemed terribly clear to him 
was that he must get away. He knew Mrs. Melland 
only too well. She would spare no trouble in hunting 
him down. She would exact the uttermost farthing. 
It meant gaol and ruin. The obvious impediment 
to getting away was that he had no money and no 
friends. He had not sufficient strength of character 
to face a tramp life. He had lived too long in the 
society of the pampered Pekinese. He loved com¬ 
fort. 

Out of the simmering tumult of his soul grew a very 
definite passion—the passion of hate. He developed 
a vast, bitter, scorching hatred for the person who 
had caused this ghastly climax to his unfortunate 
career—Old Fags. He went over the whole inci¬ 
dents of the day again, rapidly recalling every phase 
of Old Fags’s conversation and manner. What a 
blind fool he was not to have seen through the filthy 
old swine’s game! But what had he done with the 
dogs? Sold the lot for a pound, perhaps! The 
idea made Meads shiver. He slouched through the 
streets harbouring his pariah-like lust. 

* * * * * 

We will not attempt to record the psychologic 
changes that harassed the soul of Mr. Meads during 
the next two days and nights, the ugly passions that 
stirred him and beat their wings against the night, 


190 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

the tentative intuitions urging toward some vague 
new start, the various compromises he made with 
himself, his weakness and inconsistency that found 
him bereft of any quality other than the sombre 
shadow of some ill-conceived revenge. We will 
only note that on the evening of the day we mention 
he turned up at Bolingbroke Buildings. His face 
was haggard and drawn, his eyes blood-shot and his 
clothes tattered and muddy. His appearance and 
demeanour was unfortunately not so alien to the 
general character of Bolingbroke Buildings as to 
attract any particular attention, and he slunk like 
a wolf through the dreary passages and watched the 
people come and go. 

It was at about a quarter to ten when he was 
going along a passage in Block “F” that he suddenly 
saw Minnie Birdie come out of one door and go into 
another. His small eyes glittered and he went on 
tip-toe. He waited till Minnie was quite silent in 
her room and then he went stealthily to Room 475. 
He tried the handle and it gave. He opened the 
door and peered in. There was a cheap tin lamp 
guttering on a box that dimly revealed a room of 
repulsive wretchedness. The furniture seemed 
mostly to consist of bottles and rags. But in one 
corner on a mattress he beheld the grinning face of 
his enemy—Old Fags. Meads shut the door silently 
and stood with his back to it. 

“Oh!” he said. “So here we are at last, old bird, 
eh! ” 


OLD FJGS” 


191 

This move was apparently a supremely successful 
dramatic coup, for Old Fags lay still, paralyzed with 
fear, no doubt. 

“So this is our little ’ome, eh?” he continued, 
“where we bring little dogs and sell ’em. What have 
you got to say, you old-” 

The groom’s face blazed into a sudden accumu¬ 
lated fury. He thrust his chin forward and let forth 
a volley of frightful and blasting oaths. But Old 
Fags didn’t answer; his shiny face seemed to be 
intensely amused with this outburst. 

“We got to settle our little account, old bird, see?” 
and the suppressed fury of his voice denoted some 
physical climax. “Why the hell don’t you answer?” 
he suddenly shrieked, and springing forward he 
lashed Old Fags across the cheek. 

And then a terrible horror came over him. The 
cheek he had struck was as cold as marble and the 
head fell a little impotently to one side. Trembling, 
as though struck with an ague, the groom picked up 
the guttering lamp and held it close to the face of 
Old Fags. It was set in an impenetrable repose, the 
significance of which even the groom could not mis¬ 
understand. The features were calm and childlike, 
lit by a half smile of splendid tolerance that seemed 
to have over-ridden the temporary buffets of a queer 
world. Meads had no idea how long he stood there 
gazing horror-struck at the face of his enemy. He 
only knew that he was presently conscious that 
Minnie Birdie was standing by his side and as he 


i 9 2 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

looked at her, her gaze was fixed on Old Fags and a 
tear was trickling down either cheek. 

“E’s dead,” she said. “Old Fags is dead. ’E 
died this morning of noomonyer.” 

She said this quite simply as though it was a state¬ 
ment that explained the wonder of her presence. 
She did not look at Meads or seem aware of him. 
He watched the flickering light from the lamp 
illumining the underside of her chin and nostrils and 
her quivering brows. 

“’E’s dead,” she said again, and the statement 
seemed to come as an edict of dismissal as though 
love and hatred and revenge had no place in these 
fundamental things. Meads looked from her to the 
towsled head leaning slightly to one side of the mat¬ 
tress and he felt himself in the presence of forces he 
could not comprehend. He put the lamp back 
quietly on the box and tip-toed from the room. 

Out once more in the night, his breath came 
quickly and a certain buoyancy drove him on. He 
dared not contemplate the terror of that threshold 
upon which he had almost trodden. He only knew 
that out of the surging maelstrom of irresolution some 
fate had gripped him. He walked with a certain 
elasticity in the direction of Millwall. There would 
be doss-houses and docks there and many a good 
ship that glided forth to strange lands, carrying 
human freight of whom few questions would be 
asked, for the ship wanted them to ease her way 
through the regenerating seas. . . . 


OLD FAGS 


And in the cold hours of the early dawn Minnie 
Birdie lay awake listening to the rhythmic breathing 
of her child. And she thought of that strange old 
man less terrible now in his mask of death than when 
she had first known him. No one to-morrow would 
follow to his pauper’s grave, and yet at one time— 
who knows? She dared not speculate upon the 
tangled skein of this difficult life that had brought 
him to this. She only knew that somehow from it 
she had drawn a certain vibrant force that made her 
build a monster resolution. Her child! She would 
be strong, she would throw her frail body between 
it and the shafts of an unthinking world. She leant 
across it, listening intensely, then kissed the delicate 
down upon its skull, crooning with animal satis¬ 
faction at the smell of its warm soft flesh. 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 


I N RECONSTRUCTING the sombre story which 
gathered round the professional association of 
those two clever men, James Wray and Francis 
Vallery, it is necessary to know a little of their early 
life and up-bringing. I am indebted very consider¬ 
ably to my friend, Timothy Rallish, for the light 
of his somewhat sardonic perceptions upon the 
character of Wray. They were at Marlborough 
together, and afterward at Oxford, although at 
different colleges; Timothy at Oriel, and Wray—as 
one would naturally expect—at Balliol. 

‘‘I used to like him,” said Timothy. “I suppose 
I was the only chap who did. They hated him at 
Marlborough; he was so confoundedly pious. Up 
at Oxford it was not so bad. There are always such 
a lot of precious people at Balliol; it doesn’t stand 
out so. He was an idealist, without a conscience, if 
you know what I mean. He set up impossible 
standards, never attempted to live up to them, or to 
observe whether any one else attempted to. His 
contempt for his fellow-creatures was almost ab¬ 
normal. I think the whole attitude in some queer 
way came out of his music-madness. Music was 
the absorbing passion of his life, and even for the 


194 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 195 

best of that he never appeared to have a very great 
opinion. I believe he thought that Bach’s com¬ 
positions were not too bad, and for Beethoven he 
sometimes indulged in mild patronage. Schumann 
bored him, so did Wagner, and for Chopin’s ‘senti¬ 
mental tripe’ he had no use.” 

“I am talking now of Wray between the age of 
seventeen and twenty-three—the age when one’s 
critical faculties are relentless, when one knows every 
darned thing, don’t you know. I can’t tell why I 
liked Wray. He did not—and never has—liked me. 
Perhaps there was something about the profundity 
of his discontent which appealed to me—his restless¬ 
ness and detachment. I like people who are dis¬ 
satisfied. But there was more than that about him: 
he was a spiritual wanton. I believe he would have 
sacrificed a city full of babies to perfect one musical 
phrase. You see, there was no reason at all why he 
should have gone up to Oxford. He was only inter¬ 
ested in music, which has never been properly taught 
there. I think he liked to compose tone-poems in 
the society of rich men’s sons who were only inter¬ 
ested in sports and rag-time. The contact satisfied 
some cynical kink in his own nature. It was cer¬ 
tainly nothing to do with the medievalism of Oxford, 
which only bored him. O Lord! The things which 
bored Jimmy Wray when he was twenty-three!” 

“At that time,” I asked, “do you know anything 
of his standard of accomplishments?” 

“Very little,” replied Timothy. “Of course I 


196 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

know nothing about music myself, but people who 
did know something used to differ considerably 
about Wray. I got the general impression that he 
was talented in a nebulous kind of way; that he had 
ideas but that they were too involved; that he could 
create atmosphere but that he couldn’t construct. 
He was a very pretty boy at that time, with a thin 
aesthetic face, dark reflective eyes and two pink spots 
in the centre of each cheek. He had got out of all 
sport on the ground that he had a weak heart. It 
is certainly true that his father—who made a small 
fortune out of accordion-pleated skirts—died at an 
early age from heart disease. His mother was a 
gentle negative kind of woman, who lived at Bourne¬ 
mouth, knitted things for people, and distributed 
prizes at Girls’ Friendly Societies. He also had two 
sisters, one, I believe, dabbled in Christian Science, 
the other married a sanitary inspector. They 
played no great part in Wray’s life, neither did any 
of them, or any relative or ancestor, as far as I can 
find out, supply any note to account for the peculiarly 
individual precocity of James himself. Afterward, 
when he became famous, the whole family was al¬ 
most shocked.” 

This conversation with Timothy impressed itself 
on my memory very vividly, for it occurred just after 
I had had an interview with Wray’s mother. At 
that time the study and analysis of suppressions and 
complexes had not reached the degree of fashionable 
absurdity which it has at the present day, but 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 197 

neurosis has always been a popular complaint 
amongst those people unlucky enough to be able 
to afford to indulge in it. As an ordinary, rather 
over-worked local practitioner, I can only give my 
opinion that neurosis only exists amongst that small 
minority of people who do not have to fight for 
existence. 

It appears to me that this instinct of fighting for 
existence is born in every man or woman. When 
circumstances rob them of it they are apt to raise 
some artificial standard and fight for that, for fight 
they must. We have not reached the millennium. 
During my thirty-three years’ experience in the 
medical profession I have never yet met the case of a 
man or a woman who worked hard for a living being 
neurotic, unless his or her constitution was already 
undermined by neurotic parentage. You may say 
that an artificial standard is as good a thing to fight 
for as a real standard, and so it may be. A man who 
fights for some spiritual cause is certainly as justified 
as a man who fights to earn bread and wine. It is all 
a question of equipoise. But a man who in Timothy’s 
terms would “ sacrifice a city full of babies to perfect 
one musical phrase” is in my opinion a lunatic. 

But I am perfectly willing to admit that I may 
be wrong. For all I know the whole social fabric 
may be changing its face values. We can only act 
according to our lights. When Wray’s mother came 
and spoke to me about him I knew nothing about 
the man. He was thirty-one then. I can see her 


198 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

now, that gentle old lady, with silver curls and 
pleading eyes, extremely confiding and rather out¬ 
raged. Such things didn’t happen at Bournemouth. 
But, dear her, Jimmy had only been to Bourne¬ 
mouth once, and he refused to go again because—the 
trams didn’t run on Sundays and it took him two 
hours to walk out of the town! Was ever such a 
ridiculous excuse offered! He was a dear boy, a 
lovable, clever—oh, brilliantly clever!—boy, but 
quite incomprehensible, and with such awful moods. 
Then with great solemn shaking curls, bobbing above 
the stiff corsets, worse than that—a terrible tem¬ 
per . . . cruel, vindictive, he might do any¬ 

thing in such moods. She regarded me alertly. I 
think she thought I might prescribe some pills— 
they do that in Bournemouth—one to be taken night 
and morning, will cure asthma, sluggish liver or homi¬ 
cidal mania. 

I remarked obligingly that I would see the young 
man. But how was that to be done? He lived in 
Chelsea, a terrible, irreligious suburb of London, 
inhabited by artists and others . . . quite 

irresponsible people. Besides, he was so exclusive, 
so apt to be rude, even violent and abusive. He 
detested strangers. He was altogether so unlike his 
dear papa, who treated everyone even his work¬ 
people as though they were equals! And then came 
the terrible crux of the story. It appeared that on 
Jimmy Wray’s solitary visit to Bournemouth he had 
murdered a cat. Not, mark you, an ordinary stray,. 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 199 

vagabond cat, but his mother’s cat, his mother’s own 
darling Pee-Wee. The cat, it appeared, had an¬ 
noyed him for several nights when he was sitting up 
late, trying to compose. He had warned his mother 
that something would have to be done. He had 
appeared haggard and distraught in the mornings. 
But Mrs. Wray had not taken the matter very 
seriously. Such a trivial affair! Dear Pee-Wee! 
He was often like that. He made funny noises in the 
night. . . . There were several cats in the 

neighbouring houses, doubtless friends of Pee-Wee’s. 
And then one night the appalling thing happened. 
Jimmy got up about one o’clock. He went out and 
picked up a piece of plank. He beat the cat to a 
pulp! He had never been to Bournemouth since. 
What can you suggest, Doctor Parsons? 

I am quite sure that I should have suggested noth¬ 
ing, done nothing, had I not soon after come in touch 
with Timothy Rallish, who reported upon Wray in 
the manner I have stated. I was amused to hear 
Timothy say that he didn’t know why he liked Wray. 
I knew the reason. It was because Timothy couldn’t 
help liking every one. He was that kind of boy— 
rather short and stocky, with ingenuous blue eyes 
which sparkled at you through enormous gold- 
rimmed glasses. He found life absorbing. He had 
scrambled through Oxford, accomplishing nothing 
of note beyond making himself popular. His people 
were poor, and on coming down from Oxford he had 
plunged into the vagaries of journalism. 


200 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


He was full of enthusiasms, and was always doing 
the donkey-work for some quack. He had a genius 
for compiling and card-indexing. He edited and sub¬ 
edited various treatises and anthologies. I remember 
that he once wrote a book with the impressive title, 
“Concentrate,” for a South African pseudo-medical 
gentleman, who lived in Westminster and charged 
three guineas a visit for the treatment of concen¬ 
tration. Timothy wrote every word of the book, 
but when it was published the author was announced 
as Mr. Hambro MacManus, and this red-haired 
South African Scot who arranged his rooms in such 
a theatrical way in Ashley Gardens, and made 
mysterious passes and grunts over the back of 
people’s heads, claimed the credit for it, and also the 
royalties. Timothy thought the whole episode 
extremely amusing. 

“I never mind paying for experience,” he said. 
“Poor old Mac! He was quite wrong in most of his 
theories, but somehow I liked him.” 

When I told Timothy about my interview with 
Mrs. Wray he was wildly enthusiastic at the idea of 
my visiting Jimmy Wray when I next went to Lon¬ 
don. 

“It’s no good going to him as a medical man, or 
letting him know that his mother sent you. You 
must just meet him socially. He is just possible on 
occasions. I could easily work it for you. I could 
introduce you when you are up in town. You 
could meet him casually at the Albatross Club or the 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 201 

Cafe Royale. I should love to know what you 
think of him.” 

The whole matter passed out of my mind till five 
months later when I had occasion to visit London for 
a few days in connection with the idea of purchasing 
a half-practice from an old medical friend of mine in 
West Kensington. 

Timothy immediately looked me up and reminded 
me about Wray. His method was characteristic. 
He came into my bedroom at the little hotel at 
Paddington, and, striking a sentimental attitude, 
began humming a well-known popular song. When 
I asked him what his particular ailment was he 
laughed and said: 

“Don’t you know that tune?” 

“I’ve heard it, I believe.” 

“That’s ‘The Sheen of thy Golden Tresses,’ the 
most popular song of the day, words by Francis 
Vallery, music by James Wray. How are the 
mighty fallen!” 

I met Wray that same evening at the Albatross 
Club. Either Timothy’s estimate of him was dis¬ 
torted, or he had altered considerably, or else we had 
struck him on a good night. He was quite charming 
to me. His dress was certainly a little affected, but 
he was still very good looking, and he had a quiet 
sense of fun, and was prepared to listen and to be 
entertained. I observed that he was appreciably 
more friendly to me than he was to Timothy. He 
had a curious high, rather squeaky voice as though 


202 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


it had never cracked, and a laugh that corresponded. 
I could understand that this characteristic of him 
might easily get on one’s nerves after a time. But 
on the whole I could find little to criticize about the 
man or his behaviour. He even invited me to visit 
him in his rooms at Chelsea. And there two nights 
later I met the great Francis Vallery. 

In looking back after all these years, and trying to 
analyze the character of James Wray, it is impossible 
to do so without associating it with that of Francis 
Vallery. Their lives and characters dove-tailed and 
reacted upon one another in a bewildering degree. 
Physically, they were a strange contrast. Vallery 
was a heavy, masterful-looking man, with a wide 
loose mouth, sloping forehead, and cynical, watchful 
eyes. He was normally taciturn, unresponsive, 
and curiously brusque in his manners. By com¬ 
parison Wray seemed slim, debonair, almost un¬ 
substantial. I do not think they really liked each 
other from the first. On that evening when I saw 
them together in the Chelsea flat, I could tell by the 
expression of Vallery’s face that Wray’s high reedy 
voice and laughter irritated him. I also came to the 
conclusion before the evening was over that Vallery 
had a beast of a temper. 

Once an argumentative young student made a 
remark contradicting a statement of Vallery’s, and I 
saw the latter’s eyes blaze with anger and saliva ooze 
to the corners of his large mouth. He said nothing, 
however. When we were leaving, the man in the 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 203 

hall handed him his overcoat the wrong way round. 
Vallery snatched it angrily from his grasp and 
growled. I knew that Wray was also capable of 
murdering a cat in a fit of passion, so I said to myself 
that the happy association which produced “The 
Sheen of thy Golden Tresses” was not very likely to 
last. 

And then comes the strange aspect of the case. 
The association between Wray and Vallery lasted 
for twenty-seven years, and became a by-word 
amongst English-speaking peoples. 

In justice to the memory of them both I would 
like to hasten to add that they never again did any¬ 
thing quite so bad as “The Sheen of thy Golden 
Tresses.” This song was a little difficult to account 
for. It was in a way their meeting ground, the plank 
from which they sprang. It was quite understand¬ 
able Vallery writing the words, but quite incompre¬ 
hensible Wray composing the music. It is not 
known and never will be known by what method or 
means Vallery influenced Wray to suddenly forsake 
his precious muse and write this appalling song. 
For a man who up to that time had considered 
Chopin “sentimental tripe” to turn suddenly round 
and write this ballad, which was devoid of any 
subtlety or distinction, is one of those things one 
can only state and leave to the imagination of the 
reader to account for. Vallery had certainly written 
a good deal of sentimental prose tripe at that time, 
but nothing quite so bad as that. I think they were 


204 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

both a little ashamed of the song, and never 
mentioned it. It was nearly a year before anything 
else sprang from their united efforts, and then was 
produced the musical play, “The Oasis.” 

“The Oasis” was a great success and ran at the 
Lyric for over a year. It was an astonishingly 
clever work, notable for its complete unity. The 
words appeared to inspire the music; the music 
was a vivid expression of the words. You could not 
think of one without the other. If Vallery’s libretto 
appeared ingenious and suggestive of melody, Wray’s 
music had a literary and whimsical flavour of its own 
which helped the context enormously. It appeared 
as though from two extreme poles both men had 
gone half way to meet the other. Vallery had had 
little education. He was the son of an unsuccessful 
bookmaker from Nottingham. 

Up to that time he had been known as a writer of 
jingles and sporting articles, but in “The Oasis” he 
displayed a considerable ingenuity of construction 
and a really mordant sense of fun. Wray came half¬ 
way down from his pinnacle of involved and atmos¬ 
pheric experiment to write simple melodic airs. It 
was rather amusing to observe in this work, and in 
others that followed, how he cunningly employed 
some of the lesser known themes of the despised 
Schumann and Chopin, adapted them, elaborated 
them and converted them into “songs of the day!” 

Timothy and I, and some of the others who knew 
them both, were naturally intrigued to see how the 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 205 

personal side of the association worked. Timothy 
offered to bet me five pounds that they would quarrel 
and separate within six months. It certainly seemed 
remarkable that they did not. It may have been a 
fortunate factor that two men working together on 
these lines do not necessarily work in the same room. 
Vallery brought Wray the libretto, and probably 
discussed it a little. He was profoundly ignorant 
of the technical side of music. Wray wrote the 
music and the lyrics; his partner was clever enough 
to see that these were good and there was little for 
him to criticize. They may have discussed joins, 
and turns and intervals, but there were no great 
points of cleavage over which they would be likely 
to fall foul. 

During the succeeding five years, four Wray- 
Vallery productions were staged in London and New 
York, and companies went on the road with them. 
By that time they had established their reputation 
as a unique combination. They were beginning 
to make money and to be big people in the theatrical 
world. And Timothy and I were still awaiting the 
great quarrel. I had by that time joined my friend 
Doctor Brill in West Kensington, so that I was able 
to indulge occasionally in the society of Timothy’s 
friends and to visit the theatre. The Wray-Vallery 
plays were a constant delight to me. I really believe 
that Timothy was more interested in the men than 
in their plays. But then he was like that. He 
would come and report to me the latest scandal 


206 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


concerning them, and indeed their behaviour was 
always open to criticism of some sort. 

One evening Vallery was arrested for assaulting 
the head waiter at the Amalfi restaurant because he 
moved his walking-stick from the corner of the room 
to an umbrella-stand. He escaped with a fine and a 
little gentle bantering from the Press. The more 
successful he became the more overbearing became 
his manners. He hardly troubled to speak to any¬ 
one, unless it was a pretty woman, or someone to 
whom it paid him to be polite. Upon Wray the 
effect was almost as disastrous, although it touched 
him in a different way. His manners in some ways 
improved, that is to say, he was more sociable and 
amenable. On the other hand he became more 
shallow and insincere, more of a poseur. 

He adopted the garb of the eccentric genius. He 
was wildly extravagant, and took parties of girls to 
the Cafe Royale, and to an ornate bungalow he had 
hired at Maidenhead. He became less self-opinion¬ 
ated, but it was done as though opinion—no one’s 
opinion—was of any consequence. It was as though 
he had lost something and the knowledge of it made 
him desperate. It was a known fact that during 
those early years of their association Wray and 
Vallery sometimes quarrelled, but the quarrel never 
reached an open rupture. Once Wray appeared 
in my consulting-room. He was looking haggard 
and ill. When I asked him the trouble he said: 

“Pm not sleeping, Parsons.” 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 207 

I advised the usual remedies, recommended a 
complete rest and change, but as I watched the rest¬ 
less movements of his features I realized how inade¬ 
quate is the authority of a medical man. We may 
sometimes make a shrewd guess at the basic cause 
of a disaster, but no medicine or advice will cure a 
megalomaniac. Just as he was about to go he turned 
to me and with one of his quick appealing looks he 
gasped: 

“I hate that man, Valery!” 

So you see the old faith in the fetish does not die. 
What did Wray expect me to do? Possibly he would 
have been better advised to have gone to a priest. 
That is, if he could have found a really nice im¬ 
pressive priest, any one would have done, if they had 
only had sufficient strength of character to change 
Wray. I thought of his rather futile old mother and 
I felt sorry for him. I said what I could. I tried 
to persuade him to give up his association with 
Vallery. I pointed out that his health was more 
important than his material success. It wasn’t 
that, he tried to explain, not just the material suc¬ 
cess. He had quite a decent private income (in¬ 
herited from his father in the accordion-pleated line). 
Then what was it? Wray was quite incoherent. 
He went off late in the evening, and I noticed after 
he had gone that he had left the prescription I had 
given him on the table in the hall! 

On discussing the matter afterward with Timothy 
I said: 


208 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


“What is it that keeps these men together?” 

And for all it may be worth I will quote just what 
Timothy replied. For Timothy at that time had 
just married a charming girl, a former typist to a 
dental surgeon in Kilburn, and he was becoming 
something of a philosopher. This is what Timothy 
said: 

“It is the angel of accomplishment, old man. 
When people are working, doing things together, 
especially if they are doing them in the face of diffi¬ 
culties, there is always some queer genie which pre¬ 
sides over their affections. Comrades in battle, 
however opposed they may be temperamentally. . . 
Chaps who row in the same boat, play in the same 
team at cricket or football, or are up against things 
together. The angel of accomplishment presides 
over their fate. It’s afterward, or when they lose 
that united sense of conflict, that the trouble some¬ 
times comes.” 

In the light of what followed I found Timothy’s 
remarks interesting. It was during the production 
of their sixth success, “The Apple-pie Bed,” that 
the biggest cloud that had so far gathered over the 
Wray-Vallery combination made its appearance. 
And, as one might expect, it came in the form of a 
woman. Lydia Looe played the part of the ingenue , 
Myra, in “The Apple-pie Bed.” She was a pretty 
girl, not quite so ingenuous as she appeared on the 
stage, but in any case too good for either James 
Wray or Francis Vallery, who were both approaching 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 209 

a rather dilapidated middle-age. How their rivalry 
over the charms of this new discovery never reached 
a crisis is a mystery to me. I spent a Sunday even¬ 
ing at Wray’s flat when all concerned were present, 
and the look of venom that passed between the two 
men at the slightest success of either upon the lady’s 
favour was positively frightening. The competition 
lasted eight months and Vallery appeared to be 
winning. 

“If the matter is really settled,” I thought, “I 
shall dread to pick up my newspaper.” 

Let me add that all this time the two men were 
working on a new play, “The Island in Arabia.” 
Timothy said he had seen the figure of Wray all 
muffled up, hanging about outside Vallery’s house 
in Knightsbridge late at night “looking like an 
apache.” The crash was surely about to come, but 
in July the Gordian knot was severed by Lydia Looe 
running away with the business manager of a jam 
and pickle factory. “The Island in Arabia” was 
produced the following month and became one of 
the biggest successes of the series. We all hoped that 
the episode of Lydia Looe would tend to reconcile 
the two men, and so apparently it did. But the 
following year Vallery publicly accused Wray of 
swindling him. There was a fearful dispute between 
principals and their lawyers and the matter came into 
court. I forget the details of the case but it princi¬ 
pally concerned the royalties on the songs published 
separately from the score. I know that Wray lost 


210 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

the case and that it cost him thousands of pounds. 

He went on the continent and married a wealthy 
Hungarian widow, and we all believed that England 
had seen the last of him. But as though not to be 
outdone in this, Vallery also married. His marriage 
was about as disastrous an affair as ever disgraced 
the records of a divorce court. It lasted eighteen 
months, and when Mrs. Vallery was eventually 
persuaded to appeal to the courts she had a most 
pitiable story to disclose. Not only had she no 
difficulty in proving Vallery’s guilt of faithlessness, 
but she recorded a distressing series of cruelties. 
He had struck her on innumerable occasions. He 
had thrashed her with a belt, locked her in a cup¬ 
board, thrown her out into the garden on a wet night, 
and many times threatened her with a revolver. 

A few months after the divorce, news came that 
Wray’s wife had died suddenly under rather mysteri¬ 
ous circumstances, in Buda-Pesth. He returned to 
London, and three years after this law case Wray and 
Vallery were again at work together on a play which 
was called, “Wine, Woman, and Mr. Binns.” It 
was one of the most amusing, most lyrical plays seen 
in London for a decade, and ran for four hundred 
and fifty odd nights. The Wray-Vallery combination 
then seemed to make a most surprising spurt. They 
both settled down and worked hard. Wray’s ex¬ 
perience in Hungary, whatever it had been, quieted 
him. He became less eccentric, less depraved, in his 
appetites. On the other hand, he was rapidly be- 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 211 

coming more self-centred, shrewd, and commercial. 
He appeared to be obsessed with the idea of making 
a huge fortune. Vallery was also not without 
ambitions in this direction. And between them they 
undoubtedly succeeded in grinding the commercial 
axe to good purpose. 

There is no question but that the series of plays 
that they composed during this latter phase were 
artistically inferior to the earlier ones, but on the 
other hand their sureness of touch was more ap¬ 
parent. To use a hackneyed phrase they knew just 
what the public wanted and how to give it to them. 

At that time Timothy and I had quite lost touch 
with them. Timothy was the proud father of three 
girls. He had written several successful novels and 
stories, and was a reader to an eminent firm of 
publishers. I myself had a son and daughter and an 
increasing practice. We met frequently and in¬ 
dulged in little social distractions, but we felt no 
great desire to seek further the companionship 
of these two notorieties. 

“They’re getting a bit too thick,” was Timothy’s 
comment after reading the details of Vallery’s 
divorce. Nevertheless we still followed their careers 
with considerable interest, and there often came to 
us stories of their violent differences, of scenes at 
rehearsals, ugly threats, and recriminations. On 
one occasion Wray wanted to have the whole of their 
interests put in the hands of a well-known agent, but 
Vallery objected. The dispute went on for months 


212 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


and as usual Vallery had his way. It is said that 
they wrote “The Girl at Sea” when they were not on 
speaking terms, and all the score and libretto were 
passed backward and forward through a lawyer. 
Still they went on from success to success. Together 
they wrote some twenty odd variably successful 
plays. In one new year’s honour list we found the 
name of James Wray, the eminent composer, under 
the knighthoods. The forces which control the 
distribution of honours are as mysterious as the 
forces which control the stars, and rather more 
inexplicable. How Sir James Wray managed to 
obtain his title over the heads of many distinguished 
artists it is impossible to say. These things are 
usually accepted with a smile and a shrug, and a 
man’s rivals are not often perturbed by them. 

But in the case of Vallery the affair reacted 
disastrously. He was furious. He took the whole 
thing as a royal affront to himself. If Sir James 
Wray why not Sir Francis Vallery? It is said that 
the powers that be have a prejudice against people 
who have shown up badly in the divorce court. This 
was true, but on the other hand was Wray’s private 
life above reproach ? 

His colleague’s title broke Vallery up, and it 
certainly did no good to Wray. They were both 
now prematurely old men, worn out, and embittered. 
They never wrote another play together. 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 213 

Nestling in a hollow among the gentler slopes of 
the Pyrenees is a little village called Cambo-les- 
Bains. No harsh winds ever come to Cambo. Even 
in the few months of winter the air is soft and tender. 
In February the hedges are aglow with primroses 
and violets. In March rhododendrons and mag¬ 
nolias raise their insolent heads. Thither Rostand, 
the famous French poet, laid out a dreamy garden 
on the proceeds of the success which was to come to 
“Chanticler.” Alas, poor Chanticler! Somethings 
survive more readily in a sturdier clime. Thither 
come people whose lungs are not quite the thing— 
“just for a month or two, old boy.” And they lie 
there in camp beds out in the open under the trees 
. . . waiting. It is a good place to die. 

Thither one day came Francis Vallery, old and 
broken in health. He took the ground floor of the 
Miramar Hotel, with his own valet, and cook and 
secretary. And thither one day—strangely enough 
—came Sir James Wray. It seems curious that 
after a life’s enmity they should have been drawn 
together in the end. It was Vallery who invited 
Wray. It appears to me less remarkable that 
Vallery should have invited Wray, than that Wray 
should have accepted. Vallery was completely 
friendless. The vicious associations of his youth 
were snapped. People of interest had deserted him. 
Friends had betrayed him. Wray—no, Wray was 
not his friend, but in any case they had worked to¬ 
gether. They knew each other’s frailties. There 


214 M/SS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

were a thousand things they could talk about, 
discuss . . . memories. Ah! perhaps the old 

inspiration might once more spring forth—just one 
more play. It was seven years now since the cur¬ 
tain had rung down on “The Picador.” 

But why did Wray go to Cambo? He had friends 
of a sort, society people, artists. He was still a 
figure at dinner parties, first nights. His lungs were 
still all right. His hatred of Vallery was not assuaged. 
Perhaps he went because he feared him. All through 
their association he had been under the spell of the 
stronger party. At every great crisis he knew he had 
given way. Vallery had him under his thumb from 
the first. Wray had sworn never to write again, 
“not a phrase, not a bar.” And yet one day he took 
the train from Biarritz and drove up to the little 
village in the hills, and there he stayed for seven 
months. 

For the account of the tragic denouement of this 
visit Timothy and I are indebted to an American 
gentleman named Scobie. Scobie had been to 
Cambo to visit his sister, who was herself suffering 
from pulmonary trouble. 

On his way back through London he had dined at 
Timothy’s one evening at Chelsea, and I was the only 
other guest. Mr. Scobie was a lean-faced New 
Englander, with small keen gray eyes beneath shaggy 
brows. He had long thin hands, the first fingers of 
which he had the habit of shaking at us alternately as 
he spoke. He was not anxious to talk about the 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 215 

Wray-Vallery affair. He said he would rather forget 
all about it, but as Timothy had inveigled him there 
with the express purpose of pumping in the matter, 
we were cruel enough to insist. Mr. Scobie had 
certainly had enough of it. He had had to give 
evidence in a French court through an interpreter, 
and he had no great opinion either of French courts, 
their dilatory methods, or their sanitary arrange¬ 
ments. You see, he was the sole witness of the 
actual tragedy. 

It appeared that his sister’s suite of rooms was in 
the Hotel Miramar annex. From her balcony he 
had a complete view of the South Veranda, where 
Vallery spent most of the day. He had spoken to 
Vallery once or twice, but finding that he was a 
“bear with a sore neck” he desisted and devoted his 
attention to other hotel guests. 

Then he explained: “The other old boy with the 
squeaky voice turned up.” 

“Sir James Wray?” 

“Sure. I didn’t take much stock of him at first, 
I used to hear him piping away below, and the other 
occasionally barking back an answer which I couldn’t 
hear. 

“But at last that voice began to get on my nerves. 
You see I could hear just what he said, but I couldn’t 
hear the reply. It was like listening to a man on 
the ’phone. My! it was a voice. I was almost on 
the point of wanting to call out to him to quit. But 
you know how it is. If you listen to anyone you kind 


216 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


of can’t help wanting to hear what they are going to 
say next.” 

“What sort of things did he talk about?” 

“Most every kind of dither, like old men will— 
the colour of a girl’s frock in some show put across 
when he was a young man; the best place to buy 
over-shoes; the retail price of whisky. He was a 
pretty good hand at whisky, too. He arrived with 
two cases. The other man sat watching him. I 
didn’t like them. I tried to get my sister moved, but 
the hotel was full. I was away in Paris during the 
fall and didn’t return for some months. I got back 
to Cambo three days before—the thing happened.” 

I don’t think Mrs. Timothy took the interest in this 
incident that we did. In any case she made some 
excuse about packing up Christmas presents for the 
children, and left the room. 

Mr. Scobie, Timothy and I, drew our chairs up 
round the fire. 

“How did you find things when you got back, Mr. 
Scobie?” 

“Identically the same, sir. There were those two 
old boys still on the veranda below, sitting some 
way apart, squeaky voice with the whisky bottle in 
front of him letting on about the difference between 
merino and linsey-woolsey, or the rise in home rails, 
or the name of the girl who used to sell programmes 
at some God-forsaken theatre. There was the other 
man, kind of vague in the background, growling 
‘yes’ and ‘no’ or be damned if he knew or cared. It 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 217 

was November and the weather was heavy and over¬ 
cast for those parts. It’s a dandy place, except for 
the sick people.” 

“What happened on the actual day?” 

“It all grew out of the same thing, if you’ll believe 
me. It was early in the afternoon. I’d been out for 
a stroll. When I got to my sister’s room, I heard 
squeaky voice going strong. The other man was ask¬ 
ing him where some place was hard by. Yes, sir, I 
recollect exactly now how the thing came through. 
Squeaky voice said: ‘You remember the villa next to 
Madam Ponsolle’s Epicerie establishment. There’s 
a flower-pot in the window about the size of a stone 
ginger-beer bottle—well, it’s just opposite.’ This 
seemed to satisfy the big man, and except that he 
growled: ‘Oh, it’s there, is it?’ Then he added 
rather savagely: ‘I know the place you mean. I 
noticed the flower-pot myself but it’s a good three 
times the size of a stone ginger-beer bottle.’ 

“Then, believe me, the trouble began. It beats 
me why the argument got them like that. Squeaky 
voice began to scream that he had taken particular 
note of the flower-pot at the time, and he’d swear it 
wasn’t an inch higher than an ordinary stone ginger- 
beer bottle. And each time he said that the bear 
got angrier and growled: ‘It’s three times the size.’ 
The argument raged for an hour. Squeaky voice 
pointed out that the other was every kind of wall¬ 
eyed, bone-headed thruster, and the bear rolled about 
the veranda shaking his fist and using language that 


218 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


would have made a Milwaulkee bartender hand in 
his checks. The exhibition tired me and I went 
in. 

“I think they slackened up, too, after a bit. Some¬ 
where away in the big rooms a meal was cooked. 
The night came on quick and the moon broke through 
the clouds. After dinner Im darned if I didn’t hear 
them going it again hammer and tongs. ‘I’m a judge 
of size,’ Squeaky was saying. ‘There isn’t an inch 
to it.’ ‘It’s damn nearly four times the size,’ roared 
the other, who you see had raised his figures. I was 
near to getting the hotel management on to quelling 
the disturbance, but it slackened off. At least, I 
thought it had. About ten o’clock I went to my 
room, which was right at the corner. I went on to 
the balcony to take a last breather, and then I saw 
the whole darn thing happen-” 

“Have a little whisky, Mr. Scobie,” said Timothy. 

“I will, sir, thank you. It seemed dead still. 
I thought they had gone in. But suddenly I saw 
Wray—that’s the man’s name, sure, Wray—he was 
crouching in the corner of the veranda just beneath 
me, and he had a bottle in his hand. I thought at 
first it was a last carouse, then by the light of the 
moon I noticed he was holding it by the neck and the 
bottle was empty. His thin voice came up to me 
like a husky wail: ‘Blast you, it is just the exact size.’ 
I could just see the shadowy form of the other man 
lying back near the window at the end. He was 
mumbling: ‘Five times as big!’ 


THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 219 

“Wray went toward him like a cat. I called out, 
and I think the effect of my cry was to get the big 
man alert to trouble. He was on his legs by the 
time Wray reached him. I saw the bottle swing in 
the air. Then they came to grips. Gosh! Tve 
seen men fight, but—tables and chairs and glasses 
were scattered and broken. I heard the bottle 
break, but one of them was still holding it by the 
neck. Up and down the veranda they rolled and 
fought and bit. Just like madmen. Then there 
was a scream. A man and a woman rushed out. I 
went below. The big man Vallery was lying in a 
heap—dead—his throat cut from ear to ear. Wray 
was writhing by his side. He died the next morning: 
he died blaspheming. Like a gump I gave out that 
I’d seen the whole thing and they nailed me for the 
inquest. Those French courts of justice—ugh! 
I wanted to forget the whole blamed thing—wipe 
it out of my memory. But there I was nailed, made 
to go over and over it again. I never thought it 
possible to see such scarlet hate and passion—just 
savage beasts they were—and all over the size of a 
flower-pot.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Rallish, just a finger.” 

The fire glowed in the warm security of the little 
room and snow was drifting against the windows. 
In the drawing-room across the passage Mrs. Timo¬ 
thy was running her hands over the keys of a piano. 
Timothy smiled wistfully. 

“Neither Wray nor Vallery ever liked me,” he 


220 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


remarked apparently irrelevantly. Then by way of 
explanation: “I’m going to have my revenge upon 
them. It isn’t often that a writer of fiction has 
things like that left at his door-” 

Mr. Scobie nodded, and shook his long first finger 
at him. 

“I see your point, sir. Provided you leave me out, 
the goods are yours. Here’s another small side issue 
might be useful to you. It wasn’t a flower-pot 
at all. I verified the fact the next day. It was a 
child’s red stockinette cap. Just think of it. They 
only had to stroll ten minutes up the village street. 
They could have taken a ruler, bet each other drinks, 
laughed the thing off. ’Stead of that they thought 
it more amusing to fight with broken whisky bottles. 
What do you think of it?” 

We sat there staring at the fire. Timothy was 
sucking at an empty pipe. 

“I can see the explanation,” he said at last. 

“I should be entertained to hear it, sir.” 

“You see,” said Timothy slowly, “the angel of 
accomplishment had deserted them.” 


THE MATCH 


r " IS all so incredibly long ago that you must not 
ask me to remember the scores. In fact, even of 
the result I am a little dubious. I only know that 
it was just on such a day as this that we were all 
mooning round Bunty Cartwright’s garden after 
breakfast, smoking, and watching the great bumble¬ 
bees hanging heavily on the flowers. Along the 
flagged pathway to the house were standard rose- 
trees, the blossoms and perfume of which excited one 
pleasantly. It was jolly to be in flannels and to feel 
the sun on one’s skin, for the day promised to be hot. 

For years it had been a tradition for dear old 
Bunty to ask us all down for the week. There were 
usually eight or nine of us, and we made up our 
team with the doctor and his son and one or two other 
odds and ends of chaps in the neighbourhood. I 
know that on this day he had secured the services of 
Dawkin, a very fast bowler from a town near by, 
for Celminster, the team we were to play, were re¬ 
puted to be a very hot lot. 

As we stood there laughing and talking, Bunty 
and Tony Peebles were sitting within the stone porch, 
I remember, trying to finish a game of chess started 
the previous evening; there was the crunch of wheels 


221 


222 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


on the road, and the brake arrived, accompanied by 
the doctor's son, a thin slip of a boy on a bicycle. 

Then there was the usual bustle of putting up 
cricket-bags and going back for things one had for¬ 
gotten, and the inevitable “chipping” of “Togs,” a 
boy whose real name I have forgotten, but who was 
always last in everything, even in the order of going 
in. It must have been fully half an hour before we 
made a start, and then the doctor hadn’t arrived. 
However, he came up at the last minute, his jolly 
red face beaming and perspiring. Some of the chaps 
cycled, and soon left us behind, but I think we were 
seven on the brake. It was good to be high up and 
to feel the wind blowing gently on our faces from 
the sea. We passed villages of amazing beauty 
nestling in the hollows of the downs, and rumbled on 
our way to the accompaniment of lowing sheep and 
the doctor’s rich, burring voice talking of cricket, 
and the song of the lark overhead that sang in praise 
of this day of festival. 

It was good to laugh and talk and watch the white 
road stretching far ahead, then dipping behind a 
stretch of woodland. It was good to feel the thrill 
of excited anticipation as we approached the out¬ 
skirts of Celminster. What sort of ground would it 
be? What were their bowlers like? Who would 
come off for us? 

It was good to see the grinning, friendly faces of the 
villagers and then to descend from the brake, to nod 
to our opponents in that curiously self-conscious way 


THE MATCH 


223 

we have as a race, and then eagerly to survey the 
field. And is there in the whole of England a more 
beautiful place than the Celminster cricket ground? 

On one side is a clump of buildings dominated by 
the straggling yards and outhouses belonging to the 
“Bull” inn. On the farther side is a fence, and just 
beyond a stream bordered by young willows. At 
right angles to the inn is a thick cluster of elms—a 
small wood, in fact—while on the fourth side a low, 
gray stone wall separates the field from the road. 
Across the road may be seen the spire of a church, 
the fabric hidden by the trees, and away beyond 
sweeping contours of the downs. 

In the corner of the field is a rough pavilion faced 
with half-timber, and a white flagstaff with the 
colours of the Celminster Cricket Club fluttering at 
its summit. 

Members of the Celminster Club were practising 
in little knots about the field, and a crowd of small 
boys were sitting on a long wooden bench, shouting 
indescribably, and some were playing mock games 
with sticks and rubber balls. A few aged inhabi¬ 
tants looked at us with lazy interest and touched 
their hats. 

A little man with a square chin and an auburn 
moustache came out and grinned at us and asked for 
Mr. Cartwright. We discovered that he was the 
local wheelwright and the Celminster captain. He 
showed us our room in the pavilion and called 
Bunty “sir.” Of course, Bunty lost the toss. He 


224 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

always did during that week, and this led to consider¬ 
ably more “chipping,” and we turned out to field. 

No one who has never experienced it can ever 
Appreciate the tense joy of a cricketer when he comes 
out to begin a match. The gaiety of the morning, 
when the light is at its best and all one’s senses are 
alert; the sense of being among splendid deeds that 
are yet unborn; and then the jolly red ball! How 
we love to clutch it with a sort of romantic exultation 
and toss it to one another! For it is upon it that 
the story of the day will turn. It is the scarlet 
symbol of our well-ordered adventure, as yet un¬ 
touched and virginal, and yet strangely pregnant 
of unaccomplished actions. What story will it 
have to tell when the day is done? Who will drop 
catches with it? Who destroy its virgin loveliness 
with a fearful drive against the stone wall? 

As I have stated, it happened all so long ago that 
I cannot clearly remember many of the details of that 
match, but curiously enough I remember the first 
over that Dawkin sent down very vividly. 

A very tall man came in to bat. The first ball he 
played straight back to the bowler; the second was a 
“yorker” and just missed his wicket; the third he 
drove hard to mid-off* and Bunty stopped it; the 
fourth he stopped with his pads; the fifth he played 
back to the bowler again; and the sixth knocked his 
leg clean out of the ground. 

One wicket for no runs! We flung the scarlet 
symbol backward and forward in a great state of 


THE MATCH 


225 

excitement, with visions of a freak match, the whole 
side of our opponents being out for ten runs, and so 
on. I remember the glum face of their umpire, a 
genial corn merchant, dressed in a white coat and a 
bowler hat, with a bewildering number of sweaters 
tied round his neck, glancing apprehensively at the 
pavilion. I remember that the next man in was 
the little wheelwright, and he looked very solemn 
and tense. The first three balls missed his wicket 
by inches, then he stopped them. My recollection 
of the rest of that morning was a vision of the little 
wheelwright, with his chin thrust forward, frowning 
at the bowlers. He had a peculiarly uncomfortable 
stance at the wicket, but he played very straight. 
He kept Dawkin out for about five overs, then he 
started pulling him round to leg. The wicket was 
rather fiery, and Dawkin was very fast. The wheel¬ 
wright was hit three times on the thigh, twice on the 
chest, and numberless times on the arms, and one 
ball got up and glanced off his scalp, but he did not 
waver. He plodded on, lying in wait for the short 
ball to hook to leg. I do not remember how many 
he made, but it was a great innings. He took the 
heart out of Dawkin and encouraged one or two of 
the others to hit with courage. He was caught at 
last by a brilliant catch by Arthur Booth running 
in from long leg. 

One advantage of a village team like Celminster is 
that they have no “tail,” or, rather, that you never 
know what the tail will do. You know by the cos- 


226 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


tume that they have a tail, for the first four or five 
batsmen appear in complete outfits of white flannels 
and sweaters, and then the costumes start varying in 
a wonderful degree. Number six appears in a black 
waistcoat with white flannel trousers, number seven 
with brown pads and black boots, number eight with 
a blue shirt and brown trousers, and so on to the 
last man, who is dressed uncommonly like a verger. 
But this rallentando of sartorial equipment does not 
in any way represent the run-getting ability of the 
team, for suddenly some gentleman inappropriately 
garbed, who gives the impression of never having 
had a bat in his hand before, will lash out and score 
twenty-five runs off one over. 

On this particular occasion I remember one man 
who came in about ninth, and who wore one brown 
pad and sand-shoes, and had on a blue shirt with a 
dicky and a collar, but no tie, and who stood right 
in front of his wicket, looked grimly at Dawkin, and 
then hit him for two sixes, a four, and a five, to the 
roaring accompaniment of “Good old Jar-r-ge!” 
from a row of small boys near the pavilion. The 
fifth ball hit his pad and he was given out l.b.w. 
He gave no expression of surprise, disappointment or 
disgust, but just walked grimly back to the pavilion. 
Celminster were all out before lunch, but I cannot 
let the last man—the verger—retire (he was bowled 
first ball off his foot) before speaking of our wicket¬ 
keeper, Jimmy Guilsworth. 

Jimmy Guilsworth was, in my opinion, an ideal 


THE MATCH 


227 

wicket-keeper. He was a little chap and wore 
glasses, but his figure was solid and homely. He was 
by profession something of a poet, and wrote lyrics 
in the celtic-twilight manner. He played cricket 
rarely, but when he did, he was instinctively made 
wicket-keeper. He had that curious, sympathetic 
mothering quality which every good wicket-keeper 
should have. The first business of a wicket-keeper 
is to make the opposing batsmen feel at home. 
When the man comes in trembling and nervous, 
the wicket-keeper should make some reassuring 
remark, something that at once establishes a bond 
of understanding between honourable opponents. 
When the batsman is struck on the elbow it is the 
wicket-keeper who should rush up and administer 
first-aid or spiritual comfort. And when the bats¬ 
man is bowled or caught, he should say: “Hard 
luck, sir!” 

At the same time it his business to mother the 
bowlers on his own side. He must be continually 
encouraging them and sympathizing with them, 
but in a subdued voice, so that the batsman does 
not hear. And, moreover, he must be prepared to 
act as chief of staff to the captain. He must advise 
him on the change of bowlers and on the disposition 
of the field. All of this requires great tact, under¬ 
standing and perspicacity. 

All these qualities Jimmy Guilsworth had in a 
marked degree. If he sometimes dropped catches 
and never stood near enough to stump any one, what 


228 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


was that to the sympathetic way he said “Oh, hard 
luck, sir!” to an opposing batsman when he was 
bowled by a long hop, or the convincing way he 
would call out, “Oh, well hit, sir!” when another 
opponent pulled a half-volley for four. What could 
have been more encouraging than the way he would 
rest his hand on young Booth’s shoulder after he 
had bowled a disappointing over, and say: “I say, 
old chap, you’re in great form. Could you pitch ’em 
up just a wee bit?” When things were going badly 
for the side, Jimmy would grin and whisper into 
Cartwright’s ear. Then there would be a consul¬ 
tation and a change of bowlers, or some one would 
come closer up to third-man, and, lo! in no time 
something would happen. 

But it is lunch-time. In the pavilion a long table 
is set, with a clean cloth and napkins and with gay 
bowls of salad. On a side-table is a wonderful array 
of cold joints, hams, cold lamb, and pies. We sit 
down, talking of the game. Curiously enough, we 
do not mix with our opponents. We sit at one end, 
and they occupy the other, but we grin at one 
another, and the men sitting at the point of contact 
of the two parties occasionally proffer a remark. 

Girls wait on us, and a fat man in shirt-sleeves, who 
produces ale and ginger-beer from some mysterious 
corner. And what a lunch it is! Does ever veal-and- 
ham pie taste so good as it does in the pavilion after 
the morning chasing a ball? And then tarts and 
fruit and custard and a large yellow cheese, how 


THE MATCH 229 

splendid it all seems, with the buzz of conversation 
and the bright sun through the open door! Does 
anything lend a fuller flavour to the inevitable pipe 
than such a lunch, mellowed by the rough flavour of 
a pint of shandy-gaff*? 

We stroll out again into the sun and puff* tran¬ 
quilly, and some of us gather round old Bob Parsons, 
the corn merchant, and listen to his panegyric of 
cricket as played “in the old days.” He’s seen a lot 
of cricket in his time, old Bob. His bony, weather¬ 
beaten face wrinkles, and his clear, ingenuous eyes 
blink at the heavens as he recalls famous men: 
“Johnny Strutt, he was a good ’un. Aye, and ye 
should ha’ seen old Tom Kennett bowl in his time. 
Nine wicket’ he took against Kailhurst, hittin’ the 
wood every toime. Fast he were, faster’n they bowl 
now. Fower bahls he bahl fast, then put up a slow.” 

He shakes his head meditatively, as though the 
contemplation of the diabolical cunning of bowling 
a slow ball after four fast ones was almost too much 
to believe, as though it was a demonstration of 
intellectual calisthenics that this generation could 
not appreciate. 

It is now the turn of the opponents to take the 
field, while we eagerly scan the score-sheet to see the 
order of going in, and restlessly move about the 
pavilion, trying on pads, and making efforts not to 
appear nervous. 

And with what a tense emotion we watch our first 
two men open the innings! It is with a gasp of relief 


230 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

we see Jimmy Guilsworth cut a fast ball for two, and 
know, at any rate, we have made a more fortunate 
start than our opponents did. 

I do not remember how many runs we made that 
afternoon, though as we were out about tea time, 
I believe we just passed the Celminster total, but I 
remember that to our joy Bunty Cartwright came 
off. He had been unlucky all the week, but this was 
his joy-day. He seemed cheerful and confident when 
he went in, and he was let off on the boundary off the 
first ball! After that he did not make a mistake. 

It was a joy to watch Bunty bat. He was tall and 
graceful, and he sprang to meet the ball like a wave 
scudding against a rock. He seemed to epitomize 
the dancing sunlight, a thing of joy expressing the 
fullness of the crowded hour. His hair blew over his 
face, and one could catch the gleam of satisfaction 
that radiated from him as he panted on his bat after 
running out a five. 

He was not a great cricketer, none of us were, but 
he had a good eye, the heart of a lion, and he loved 
the game. 

I believe I made eight or nine. I know I made a 
cut for four. The recollection of it is very keen to 
this day, and the satisfying joy of seeing the ball 
scudding along the ground a yard out of the reach of 
point. It made me very happy. And then one of 
those balls came along that one knows nothing 
about. How remarkable it is that a bowler who 
appears so harmless from the pavilion seems terrify- 


THE MATCH 


231 

ing and demoniacal when he comes tearing down the 
crease toward you! 

Yes, I 1 m sure we passed the Celminster total now, 
for I remember at tea time discussing the possibilities 
of winning by a single innings if we got Celminster 
out for forty. 

After tea, for some reason or other, one smokes 
cigarettes. We strolled into a yard at the back of 
the “Bull” inn, and there was a wicket gate leading 
to a lawn where some wonderful old men, whose 
language was almost incomprehensible, were drink¬ 
ing ale and playing bowls. At the side were some tall 
sunflowers growing amid piles of manure. 

Some one in the pavilion rang a bell, and we 
languidly returned to take the field once more. 

I remember that it was late in the afternoon that 
a strange thing happened to me. I was fielding out 
in the long field not thirty yards from the stream. 
Tony Peebles was bowling from the end where I was 
fielding. I noted his ambling run up to the wicket 
and the graceful action of his arm as he swung the ball 
across. A little incident happened, a thing trivial 
at the time, but which one afterward remembers. 
The batsman hit a ball rather low on the off side, 
which the doctor’s son caught or stopped on the 
ground. There was an appeal for a catch, given in 
the batsman’s favour, but for some reason or other 
he thought the umpire had said “out,” and he 
started walking to the pavilion. He was at least 
two yards out of his crease when the doctor’s son 


232 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

threw the ball to Jimmy Guilsworth at the wicket. 
Jimmy had the wicket at his mercy, but instead of 
putting it down he threw it back to the bowler. It 
was perhaps a trivial thing, but it epitomized the 
game we played. One does not take advantage of a 
mistake. It isn’t done. 

The sun was already beginning to flood the valley 
with the excess of amber light which usually be¬ 
tokens his parting embrace. The stretch of level 
grass became alive and vibrant, tremblingly golden 
against the long, crisp shadows cast from the elms. 
The elms themselves nodded contentedly, and down 
by the stream flickered little white patches of chil¬ 
dren’s frocks. Everything suddenly seemed to be¬ 
come more vivid and transcendent. As if aware of 
the splendour of that moment, all the little things 
struggled to express themselves more actively. The 
birds and little insects in solemn unison praised God, 
or, rather, to my mind, at that moment they praised 
England, the land that gave them such a glorious 
setting. The white-clad figures on the sunlit field, 
the smoke from the old buildings by the inn trailing 
lazily skyward, the comfortable buzz of the voices of 
some villagers lying on their stomachs on the grass. 
Ah! My dear land! 

I don’t know how it was, but at that moment I 
felt a curious contraction of the heart, like one who 
looks into the face of a lover who is going on a 
journey. Perhaps a townsman gets a little tired at 
the end of a day in the field, or the feeling may have 


THE MATCH 


233 


been due to the Cassandra-like dirge of a flock of 
rooks that swung across the sky and settled in the 
elms. 

The bat, cut from a willow down by the stream, 
the stumps, the leather ball, the symbol of the 
wicket, the level lawn, cut and rolled and true—all 
these things were redolent of the land we moved on. 
They spoke of the love of trees and wind and sun 
and the equipoise of man in Nature’s setting. They 
symbolized our race, slow-moving and serene, with a 
certain sensuous joy in movement, a love of straight¬ 
ness, and an indestructible faith in custom. Ah, 
that the beauty of that hour should fade, that the 
splendour and serenity of it all should pass away! 
Strange waves of misgiving flooded me. 

If it should be all too slow-moving, too serene! If 
at that moment the wheels of the Juggernaut of 
evolution were already on their way to crush the 
splendour of it beneath their weight! 

Ah! my dear land, if you should be in danger! If 
one day another match should come in which you 
would measure yourself against—some unknown 
terrors! I was aware at that moment of a poignant 
sense of prayer that when your trial should come it 
would find you worthy of the clean sanity of that 
sunlit field; and if in the end you should go down, as 
everything in nature does go down before the scythe 
of Time, the rooks up there in the elm should cry 
aloud your epitaph. They are very old and wise, 
these rooks: they watched the last of the Ptolemys 


234 M/SS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

pass from Egypt, they moaned above Carthage and 
Troy, and warned the Roman praetors of the coming 
of Attila. And the epitaph they shall make for you 
—for they saw the little incident of Jimmy Guilsworth 
and the doctor’s son—shall be: “Whatever you may 
say of these people, they played the game.” 

I think those small boys down by the pavilion 
made too much fuss about the catch I muffed. Of 
course, I did get both hands to it, and as a matter of 
fact the sun was not in my eyes; but I think I started 
a bit late, and it seemed to be screwing horribly. 
Ironical jeers are not comforting. Bunty, like the 
dear good sportsman he is, merely called out: 

“Dreaming there?” 

But it was a wretched moment. I remember 
slinking across at the over, feeling like an animal that 
has contracted a disease and is ashamed to be seen, 
and my mental condition was by no means improved 
by the cheap sarcasms of young Booth or Eric 
Ganton. We did not get Celminster out for the 
second time, and the certainty that the result would 
not be affected by the second innings led to intro¬ 
duction of strange and unlikely bowlers being put 
on and given their chance. 

I remember that just at the end of the day even 
young “Togs” was tired. He sent down three most 
extraordinary balls that went nowhere within reach 
of the batsman, the fourth was a full pitch, and a 
young rustic giant who was then batting, promptly 
hit it right over the pavilion. The next ball was 


THE MATCH 


235 

very short and came on the leg side. I was fielding 
at short leg and I saw the batsman hunching his 
shoulders for a fearful swipe. I felt in a horrible 
funk. I heard the loud crack of the ball on the 
willow, and I was aware of it coming straight at my 
head. I fell back in an ineffectual sort of manner, 
and despairingly threw up my hands in a sort of self 
defence. And then an amazing thing happened: the 
ball went bang into my left hand and stopped there. 
I slipped and fell, but somehow I managed to hang on 
to the ball. I remember hearing a loud shout, and 
suddenly the pain of impact vanished in the real¬ 
ization that I had brought off a hot catch. 

It was a golden moment. The match was over. 
I remember all our chaps shouting and laughing, and 
young “Togs” rushing up and throwing his arms 
round me in a mock embrace. We ambled back to 
the pavilion and it suddenly struck me how good 
looking most of our men were, even Tony Peebles, 
whom I had always looked upon as the plainest of the 
plain. My heart warmed toward Bunty with a 
passionate zeal when he struck me on the back and 
said: “Good man! You’ve more than retrieved 
your muff in the long field.” 

I know they ragged me frightfully in the pavilion 
when we were changing, but it was no effort to take 
it good-humouredly. I felt ridiculously proud. 

We took a long time getting away, there was so 
much rubbing down and talking to be done, and then 
there was the difficulty of getting Len Booth out of 


236 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

the “Bull” inn. He had a romantic passion for 
drinking ale with yokels, and a boy had stuck a pin 
into one of Ganton’s tires, and he had to find a 
bicycle shop and get it mended. It was getting 
dark when we all got established once more in the 
brake. 

I remember vividly turning the corner in the High 
Street and looking back on the solemn profile of the 
inn. The sky was almost colourless, just a glow of 
warmth, and already in some of the windows lamps 
were appearing. We huddled together contentedly 
in the brake, and I saw the firm lines of Bunty’s face 
as he leaned over a match lighting his pipe. 

The grass is long to-day in the field where we 
played Celminster, and down by the stream are two 
square, unattractive buildings, covered with zinc 
roofing, where is heard the dull roar of machinery. 
The ravages of time cannot eradicate from my 
memory the vision of Bunty’s face leaning over his 
pipe, or the pleasant buzz of the village voices as we 
clattered among them in the High Street, or the 
sight of the old corn merchant’s face as he came up 
and spoke to Bunty (Bunty had stopped the brake 
to get more tobacco) and touched his hat and said: 

“Good noight, sir. Good luck to ’ee!” 

Decades have passed, and I have to press the 
spring of my memory to bring these things back; 
but when they come they are very dear to me. 

I know that in the wind that blows above Gallipoli 
you will find the whispers of the great faith that 


THE MATCH 


237 

Bunty died for. Eric Ganton, young Booth, and 
Jimmy Guilsworth, where are they? In vain the 
soil of Flanders strives to clog the free spirit of my 
friends. 

“Good noight, sir. Good luck to ’ee!” 

Again I see the old man’s face as I gaze across the 
field where the long grass grows, and I see the red 
ball tossed hither and thither, with its story still un¬ 
finished, and I hear the sound of Jimmy’s voice: 

“Oh, well hit, sir!” as he encourages an opponent. 

The times have changed since then, but you cannot 
destroy these things. Manners have changed, cus¬ 
toms have changed, even the faces of men have 
changed; and’yet this calendar on my knee is trying 
to tell me that it all happened two years ago to-day ! 

And overhead the garrulous rooks seem strangely 
flustered. 


MRS. BEELBROW’S LIONS 


M RS. POULTENEY-BEELBROW is the kind 
of woman who drips with refinement. Every¬ 
thing else has been squeezed out of her. 
Even her hair, which once was red, has been dried 
to a rusty gray. Her narrow face is pinched and 
bloodless; the lines of her figure blurred by shapeless 
and colourless materials, as though she resented any 
suggestion of organic functioning, as though blood 
itself were not quite “nice.” The voice is high 
pitched, toneless, ice-cold. She speaks with dead 
monotony, without enthusiasm. And yet one can 
hardly describe Mrs. Beelbrow as a woman who has 
not had enthusiasms. Lions!—lions have been the 
determining passion of Mrs. Beelbrow’s life. A life 
amidst lions can hardly be called an apathetic life, 
you might say. 

I would like to have known Mrs. Beelbrow when 
she was quite young, although the condition is 
difficult to visualize. She is now—that quite inde¬ 
terminate age which aesthetic women sometimes 
arrive at too soon and forsake too early. She might 
easily be in the early thirties; on the other hand 
she might be in the late forties; even later, even 
earlier—she is so refined, you see. You can imagine 
238 


MRS. BEELBROW’S LIONS 


239 

her doing nothing so vulgar as visiting the Royal 
Academy or reading a popular magazine. As for the 
cinema, or a revue—oh, my dear! 

It is only her eyes which sometimes give you an 
inkling of a restless soul. They are almost green 
with a tiny gray pupil. She sometimes smiles with 
her lips, but never with her eyes, which are always 
roaming—searching—lions. 

She was a Miss Poulteney (you know, the Hull 
shipping people), and she married Beelbrow the 
stockbroker. God knows why! You can seldom 
find Beelbrow. Sometimes you may observe him 
standing against the wall at one of those overpower¬ 
ing receptions she gives. He is tubby, genial and 
negative. He smiles at his wife—busily occupied 
with lions—and mutters: 

“Wonderful woman, my wife—wonderful! um- 
m. 

And then he retires to the refreshment-room and 
waits on people. 

Everyone will tell you that Mrs. Beelbrow was 
once a remarkably talented violinist, though we have 
never met any one who has heard her play. She 
certainly knows something about music, and can talk 
shiveringly about every ancient and modern com¬ 
poser of note, in addition to many composers without 
note. But do not imagine that her discriminations 
are confined to music. She shivers about archi¬ 
tecture, sculpture, painting, and literature. She 
dissects tone-poems, eulogizes discords, subdivides 


2 4 o MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

futurism into seven distinct planes, considers Synge 
too sensational, professes a pallid admiration for 
Bach when performed in an empty church, is coldly 
contemptuous of the Renaissance, dislikes Dickens, 
Scott, Zola and Tolstoi (in spite of the latter being 
a Russian and a lion). By the way, everything 
Russian exercises a curious influence over her— 
Russian and Chinese. Things Japanese she con¬ 
demns as bourgeois. She is enormously refined, a 
sybarite of aesthetic values. She has no children, 
but she keeps a marmoset, a Borzoi, five chows, two 
smoke-gray Persian cats, a parakeet, and some baby 
crocodiles in a sunk tank in the conservatory. The 
latter she keeps because they remind her of the slow 
movement of some sonata by Sibelius. 

But it is of the lions she keeps that we would speak. 
They are not real lions, of course. Real lions are 
peculiarly commonplace—reminiscent of Landseer 
and the Zoological Gardens. Mrs. Beelbrow’s lions 
roar in drawing-rooms and concert halls. They are 
mostly indigenous to the soil of Central or Eastern 
Europe. She imports them from Russia, Bohemia, 
Hungary, Austria, or Tcheko-Slovakia. No other 
breeds are any good. Neither must they be popular 
in the generally accepted sense. If you say to Mrs. 
Beelbrow: “I heard Kreisler play the Bach chaconne 
very finely last night,” she shivers and says: “Ah! 
but have you heard De Borch play the slow move¬ 
ment of the Sczhklski sonata?” 

You weakly reply “No.” The name of De Borch 


MRS. BEELBROW’S LIONS 241 

seems familiar, but you had never heard of him as a 
violinist. 

She leans backward and regards you through 
half-closed eyes. Upon her face there creeps an 
expression of genuine sympathy. There is an almost 
imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, and she turns 
away. You mutter “Damn!” and also repair to the 
refreshment-room, where Mr. Beelbrow waits on you. 
(The refreshments are very good.) He says: 

“Have you seen my wife? She's a wonderful 
woman—wonderful—um-m! ” 

We should mention that this “um-m” of Mr. 
Beelbrow is a curious kind of low hum that he affixes 
at the end of every statement. It seems to de¬ 
liberately contradict just what he has said. It is like 
a genteel “I don’t think!” 

It is said that in the old days Mrs. Beelbrow used 
to make a hobby of genuine lions, famous opera 
singers and painters. There is a full length of her by 
Sarjeant in the billiard-room; a very good portrait, 
too, if somewhat merciless. It is characteristic of 
her that it should now be in the billiard-room—a 
room that is only used on the night of a great crush 
to deposit hats and coats that are crowded out of 
the cloak-room. Sarjeant is passe. If you mention 
the portrait to her, she says: 

“Ah! but have you seen the pastel of me by 
Splitz?” 

The pastel by Splitz is in the place of honour in the 
drawing-room. You suspect that it is meant to be 


242 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

a woman by the puce-coloured drapery and what 
appears to be long hair—or is it a waterfall in the 
background? She says of it: 

“It is wonderful! Splitz got into it the expression 
of all that I have yearned for and never achieved. 
You can feel the wave-lengths of my thoughts 
vibrating esoterically.” 

(Good luck to Splitz! I hope he got his cheque.) 

The day came when Mrs. Beelbrow tired of genuine 
lions. 

They were a little disillusioning, too business-like, 
and too fond of being waited on by Mr. Beelbrow in 
the refreshment-room. And so she said : 

“I will make my own lions.” 

She travelled abroad, taking with her the mar¬ 
moset, two of the chows, one smoke-gray Persian 
cat, the parakeet, the crocodiles in a special tank, 
and Mr. Beelbrow. It was in Budapest that she 
discovered her first embryo lion. His name was 
Skratch. She heard him playing the fiddle in an 
obscure cafe. She went to hear him three nights 
running. On the third night she went up to him after 
the performance, and she said: 

“Come with me. I will make you a lion.” 

Now we are anxious to deal fairly by Skratch. 
He was young, talented, poor and hungry. He had 
the normal ambitions, desires, appetites, and the 
weaknesses of the normal young man. He had often 
dreamed of being a lion, and after one or two beers 
he frequently persuaded himself that the accomplish- 


MRS. BEELBROW'S LIONS 243 

ment was not impossible. Nevertheless, he had 
never been blind to its difficulties. And here was a 
woman who came to him and said, quite simply: 
“l will make you a lion,” in the same way that she 
might have said, “I will cut you a liver-sausage 
sandwich.” 

How could you expect Skratch to take it? 

When he arrived in London he impressed us as 
being quite a pleasant, amiable young man. He had 
a thin body, but rather puffy, sallow cheeks, jet black 
hair, and brown eyes. He was obviously at first a lit¬ 
tle apprehensive, suspicious. The eyes seemed to say: 

“Oh, well, anyway they can’t eat me.” 

He lived at Mrs. Beelbrow’s and had what she 
called finishing lessons with a Polish professor. It 
was exactly a year before Skratch was launched into 
lionhood. During that time no one heard him play 
a note. And yet a most remarkable thing happened 
in connection with the launching. Months before 
Skratch appeared in public the newspapers were 
always containing paragraphs about “a remarkable 
young violinist shortly expected from Budapest. 
Said to be a second Ysaye.” Mrs. Beelbrow’s 
drawing-room was always crowded, but Skratch 
never played. He was introduced to all kinds of 
people, and whispered about. I remember meeting 
there the critics of the—no, perhaps this kind of 
revelation is not quite fair. Anyway, when Skratch 
gave his first orchestral concert at the Queen’s 
Hall the affair had been so cleverly prepared that the 


244 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

place was packed. The Press reviews, when not 
eulogistic, were for the most part non-committal. 
Dogs are afraid to bark at a lion. It would be a 
terrible blunder to condemn a real lion. One must 
wait and see what the general verdict is. 

There is no denying also that Skratch did play very 
well. He was what is known as a talented violinist. 
One may assert without fear of contradiction that 
there were at that time in London probably thirty or 
forty violinists (leaving out, of course, the few su¬ 
preme artists) equally as talented as Skratch. But 
they had not the flair of lions. They just went on 
with their job, playing when an opportunity occurred 
but for the most part teaching. 

The following day an advertisement appeared in 
the papers announcing that “ owing to the colossal 
success of Herr Skratch’s concert, three more would 
follow on such-and-such dates.” (The advertise¬ 
ment must have been sent in before the colossally 
successful concert took place.) From that day 
forward Skratch did indeed become a qualified lion. 
The more responsible papers certainly began to damn 
him with faint praise, and even to pull him to 
pieces. But if you assert a thing frequently enough, 
insistently enough, and in large enough type, people 
will come to accept it. He became a kind of papier- 
mache lion, and it didn’t do the boy any good. For 
two years the hoardings and the newspapers reeked 
with advertisements and notices about the “great 
violinist Skratch.” 


MRS. BEELBROW'S LIONS 245 

And then he began to develop in other ways. From 
a slim, nervous boy he rapidly became a robustious, 
self-assured, florid man. His body filled out, his 
cheeks reddened, his hair grew unmanageable. He 
adopted an eccentric mode of dress. And Mrs. 
Beelbrow? The affair reacted upon her just as one 
might expect. She became more precious, more 
aloof, more impossible. She floated round the 
drawing-room with her protege with an air which 
implied: 

“Look at me! I’m the woman who made a 
lion!” 

She wore a tiger skin and left Mr. Beelbrow at 
home to look after the live stock. 

And after the first flush of triumph and excitement, 
Skratch treated Mrs. Beelbrow with complete in¬ 
difference and contempt. He left lighted cigar-ends 
on the lid of the grand piano, spilt wine on his bed- 
linen, walked about the house all day in a dressing- 
gown, threw his boots at the servants, and snubbed 
visitors. He would get up from table in the middle 
of a meal and walk out of the room without an 
apology. He was even rude to her in public, and 
she revelled in it. The ruder he was the more de¬ 
lighted she appeared. She would glance round the 
room proudly, as much as to say: 

“There! didn’t I tell you I had made a lion?” 

They went about everywhere together. They 
went to the opera, the theatre, to concerts and re¬ 
ceptions, for motor rides in the country, and they 


246 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

were always alone. Mr. Beelbrow was very busy, 
you see, making money in the city. (He had to do 
that to pay for Herr Skratch’s publicity campaign.) 
Of course, people began to talk. They might have 
talked on much less evidence than they had. The 
thing was simply thrown at them. She glued herself 
to him, and he accepted her and what she gave him 
as only right and proper. Sometimes he would 
treat her with playful familiarity. He would put 
his arm round her shoulders and call her “ol gel!” 
All very well, but how old really was Mrs. Beelbrow? 
What was happening in the dark places of her heart? 
Of course, it couldn’t go on for ever. We all shook 
our heads and were very wise, and we were right. It 
went on for nine months, and then Mr. Beelbrow—no, 
Mr. Beelbrow did nothing. He just sat tight, 
helped people to hock-cup, and expatiated upon his 
wife’s remarkable character and abilities. The dis¬ 
ruption came from outside. 

Another woman appeared on the scene. Her 
name was Fanny Friedlander. She was an ac¬ 
companist. Now, if you had wanted to invent a 
complete antithesis to Mrs. Beelbrow, Fanny would 
have saved you the trouble. She was it. She was 
young, common, ignorant and frivolous; at the 
same time she had emotional warmth. There was 
something sympathetic and lovable about her. She 
was not exclusively a man-hunter. She liked to be 
petted and admired. When she accompanied she 
wore red carnations in her hair, and cast glad, furtive 


MRS. BEELBROW'S LIONS 


247 

glances at the audience, and sometimes at the soloist, 
who, of course, was Herr Skratch. 

Herr Skratch was not the kind of gentleman to 
make any bones about such a position. He flirted 
with her outrageously, even on the platform. 
Whether Mrs. Beelbrow made any protest about 
this affair at its inception is not known. By the 
time the infatuation was apparent it was too late. 
Inflated by his meretricious successes, he was in no 
mood to brook interference. Mrs. Beelbrow’s face 
expressed little. I really believe she was rather 
fascinated by the girl herself. She seemed to be 
watching a little bewildered and uncertain howto act. 

It ended in the three of them going about every¬ 
where together, the usual unsatisfactory triangle. 
The fact that she had to play his accompaniments 
was sufficient excuse for Fanny Friedlander to go 
with him to concerts where he was playing, and to 
call at Mrs. Beelbrow’s for rehearsals, but hardly an 
excuse for her to go to the opera, the theatre, and 
motor rides, or even to stop all the afternoon at Mrs. 
Beelbrow’s and then to stay on to dinner. It was 
surmised that Mrs. Beelbrow only tolerated it be¬ 
cause she knew that if she turned the girl out, Skratch 
would have gone with her. She appeared to be 
content with the crumbs the younger woman left over. 
Ah! but only for the moment, we were convinced. 

At that time, as if conscious of his delinquency, 
Herr Skratch was a little more polite to Mrs. Beel¬ 
brow; whilst the girl made no end of a fuss of her in a 


2 4 B MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

loud common way that must have jarred the good 
lady’s sensibilities horribly. We waited to see what 
would happen next, what would be the next move of 
Mrs. Beelbrow to rid herself of this dangerous rival. 
To our surprise, a few weeks later the girl went there 
to live. She was actually living in the Beelbrow’s 
house! Was there ever a queerer menage a quatre? 
There was Mrs. Beelbrow, the lion-hunter, badly 
mauled by one of her own lions, entertaining her 
most dangerous enemy. She must have shut her 
eyes to all kinds of things. Skratch was behaving 
abominably. The girl was not the kind you could 
trust anyway. There was Mr. Beelbrow, quite 
negative, merely earning the money to support 
the absurd drama. 

“ It’s incredible,” said Jimmy Beale, one night in the 
club, “that a woman as conceited as Mrs. Beelbrow is 
could possibly put up with such a damned indignity. 
It’s making her look the prize fool ot London.” 

“Love is more powerful than a sense of dignity,” 
remarked some sententious bore from the corner. 

Love? Well, an unanalyzable quantity. I was 
perhaps the only one fortunate enough to have the 
opportunity to judge of the denouement by any 
practical evidence. And even then it was only a 
fluke, a glance. It occurred a few nights before 
Skratch disappeared. Some say he went back to the 
obscure cafe in Budapest, taking the girl with him. 
It is hardly likely in view of the handsome dot which 
.someone presented to Fanny. 


MRS . BEELBROW’S LIONS 249 

It was one of Mrs. Beelbrow’s most overwhelming 
crushes. You could not hear yourself speak for the 
roar of lions. I was squeezed against the folding 
doors. Behind a palm in the corner was an empire 
mirror, tilted at an angle. It was about the only 
thing I could see. It gave me a good view of certain 
people a little farther down the room. The first 
person I saw was Mrs. Beelbrow, and as I glanced 
at her I saw an expression come over her face, an 
expression I can only describe as one of blind jeal¬ 
ousy—a nasty, vindictive, dangerous look. 

“Oh, ho!” I thought, and sought for the reflec¬ 
tion of Fanny or Herr Skratch. But to my astonish¬ 
ment I realized very clearly that her glance was not 
directed at these two at all. She was looking at 
Mr. Beelbrow, whose wicked, malevolent little eyes 
were fixed on Fanny’s. Skratch for the moment 
was occupied with some other woman. 

You might imagine that the defection of Skratch 
would have broken Mrs. Beelbrow’s heart for the 
business. But, oh dear, no! don’t you believe it. 
Whatever you may say or think about Mrs. Beelbrow 
she has proved herself a true and indomitable lion- 
hunter. Only last Thursday I was again in her 
crowded drawing-room. A little East-end Jewess 
was playing the piano quite nicely. Mrs. Beelbrow 
was standing by the folding-doors, her face set and 
taut. When the child had finished, she murmured: 

“Ah, if Teresa Carreno could have heard that! 
Teresa never reached that velvety warmth in her 


250 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

mezzo passages. I believe the child must be the 
reincarnation of—who would it be? Liszt? No, 
someone more southern, more Byzantine. I will 
make her a lion.” 

In the refreshment-room Mr. Beelbrow was ladling 
out hock-cup as usual. When I approached him he 
said: 

“Halloa, old boy! Have some of this? Good! 
Have you seen my wife? She’s a wonderful woman 
—wonderful—um-m.” 


A MAN OF LETTERS 

ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS 

My dear Annie, 

I got into an awful funny mood lately. You’l 
think Im barmy. It comes over me like late in the 
evenin' when its gettin dusky. It started I think 
when I was in Egypt. Nearly all us chaps who was 
out there felt it a bit I think. When you was on 
sentry go in the dessert at night it was so quite and 
missterius. You felt you wanted to know things if 
you know what I mean. Since Tve come back and 
settled in the saddlery again I still feel it most always. 
A kind of discontented funny feelin if you know what 
I mean. Well old girl what I mean is when we're 
spliced up and settled over in Tibbelsford I want to be 
good for you and I want to know all about things 
and that. Well I'm goin to write to Mr. Weekes 
whose a gentleman and who lives in a private house 
near the church. They say he is a littery society 
and if it be so I'm on for joinin it. You’l think I'm 
barmy won’t you. It isn't that old dear. Me that 
has always been content to do my job and draw my 
screw on Saturday and that. You’l think me funny. 
When you've lived in the dessert you feel how old it 
all is. You want something and you don't know 

251 


252 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

what it is praps its just to improve yourself and 
that. Anyway there it is and Fll shall write to him. 
See you Sunday. So long, dear. 

Alf. 

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. 

Dear Sir, 

Someone tells me you are a littery society in 
Tibbelsford. In which case may I offer my services 
as a member and believe me. 

Your obedient servant 
Alfred Codling. 

PENDRED CASTAWAY (SECRETARY* TO JAMES WEEKES, 
ESQ.) TO ALFRED CODLING. 

Dear Sir, 

In reply to your letter of the 27th inst. I beg to 
inform you that Mr. James Weekes is abroad. I 
will communicate the contents of your letter to him. 

Yours faithfully, 

Pendred Castaway. 

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING 

My dear Alf, 

You are a dear old funny old bean. What is 
up with you. I expeck you are just fed up. You 
haven't had another tutch of the fever have you. 
I will come and look after you Sunday. You are a 
silly to talk about improvin considerin the money you 


A MAN OF LETTERS 


253 

are gettin and another rise next spring you say. I 
expeck you got fed up in the dessert and that didn’t 
you. I expeck you wanted me sometimes, eh? I 
shouldn’t think the littery society much cop myself. 
I can lend you some books. Cook is a great reader. 
She has nearly all Ethel M. Dells and most of Charles 
Garvice. She says she will lend you some if you 
promiss to cover in brown paper and not tare the 
edges. They had a big party here over the weekend 
a curnel a bishop two gentleman and some smart 
women one very nice she gave me ten bob. We 
could go to the pictures come Wednesday if agree¬ 
able. Milly is walking out with a feller over at 
Spindlehurst in the grossery a bit flashy I don’t like 
him much. Mrs. Vaughan had one of her attacks 
on Monday. Lord she does get on my nerves when 
she’s like that. Well be good and cheerio must now 
close. Love and kisses till Sunday. 

Annie, 

JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. (MALAGA, SPAIN) TO ALFRED 
CODLING 

Dear Sir, 

My secretary informs me that you wish to join 
our literary society in Tibbelsford. It is customary 
to be proposed and seconded by two members. 
Will you kindly send me your qualifications ? 

Yours faithfully, 

James Weekes. 


254 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS 

My dear Annie, 

Please thank Cook for the two books which I am 
keepin rapt up and will not stain. I read the Eagles 
mate and think it is a pretty story. As you know 
dear I am no fist at explaining myself. At the 
pictures the other night you were on to me again 
about gettin on and that. It isn’t that. Its difficul 
to explane what I mean. I expeck I will always be 
able to make good money enough. If you havent 
been throw it you cant know what its like. Its 
somethin else I want if you know what I mean. 
To be honest I did not like the picturs the other 
night. I thought they were silly but I like to have 
you sittin by me and holding your hand. If I could 
tell you what I mean you would know. I have 
heard from Mr. Weekes about the littery and am 
writin off at once. Steve our foreman has got sacked 
for pinchin lether been goin on for yeres so must 
close with love till Sunday. Alf. 

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. 

Dear Sir, 

As regards your communication you ask what are 
my quallifications. I say I have no quallifications 
sir nevertheless I am wishful to join the littery. I 
will be candid with you sir. I am not what you 
might call a littery or eddicated man at all. I am in 


A MAN OF LETTERS 


255 

the saddlery. I was all throw Gallipoli and Egypt 
L/corporal in the 2/15th Mounted Blumshires. It 
used to come over me like when I was out there 
alone in the dessert. Prehaps sir you will under¬ 
stand me when I say it for I find folks do not under¬ 
stand me about it not even the girl I walk out with 
Annie Phelps, who is as nice a girl a feller could wish. 
Prehaps sir you have to have been throw if it you 
know what I mean. When you are alone at night 
in the dessert its all so big and quite you want to get 
to know things and all about things if you know 
what I mean sir so prehaps you will pass me in the 
littery. 

Your obedient servant 
Alfred Codling. 

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING 

Dear Alf, 

You was funny Sunday. I dont know whats up 
with you. You never used to be that glum I call it. 
Is it thinking about this littery soc turnin your head 
or what. Millie says you come into the kitchen like 
a boiled oul you was. Cheer up ole dear till Sunday 
week. 

Annie. 

JAMES WEEKES, ESQ., TO ALFRED CODLING 

Dear Sir, 

Allow me to thank you for your charming letter. I 
feel that I understand your latent desires perfectly. 


256 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

I shall be returning to Tibbelsford in a week’s time 
when I hope to make your acquaintance. I feel sure 
that you will make a desirable member of our literary 
society. 

Yours cordially, 

James Weekes. 

JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS 

My dear Sam, 

I received the enclosed letter yesterday and I 
hasten to send it on to you. Did you ever read 
anything more delightful? We must certainly get 
Alfred Codling into our society. He sounds the 
kind of person who would make a splendid foil to old 
Baldwin with his tortuous metaphysics—that is, if 
we can only get him to talk. 

Yours ever, 

J. W. 


SAMUEL CHILDERS TO JAMES WEEKES 

My dear Chap, 

You are surely not serious about the ex-corporal! 
I showed his letter to Fanny. She simply screamed 
with laughter. But of course you mean it as a joke 
proposing him for the “littery.” Hope to see you on 
Friday. 

Ever yours, 

S. C. 


A MAN OF LETTERS 


257 


ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS 

My dear Annie, 

I was afraid you would begin to think I was barmy 
dear I always said so but you musnt take it like that. 
It is difficult to tell you about but you know my 
feelins to you is as always. Now I have to tell you 
dear that I have seen Mr. Weekes he is a very nice 
old gentlemen indeed he is very kind he says I can go 
to his hous anytime and read his books he has hun¬ 
dreds and hundreds. I have newer seen so many 
books you have to have a ladder to clime up to some 
of them he is very kind he says he shall propose me 
for the littery soc and I can go when I like he ast me 
all about mysel and that was very kind and pleesant 
he told me all about what books I was to read and 
that so I think dear I wont be goin to the picturs 
Wendesday but will meet you by the Fire statesion 
Sunday as usual. 

Your lovin 
Alf. 

EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO JAMES WEEKES 

My dear Weeks, 

I’m afraid I cannot understand your attitude in 
proposing and getting Childers to second this hobble¬ 
dehoy called Alfred Codling. I have spoken to him 
and I am quite willing to acknowledge that he may 
be a very good young man in his place. But why 


258 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

join a literary society? Surely we want to raise the 
intellectual standard of the society, not lower it? 
He is absolutely ignorant. He knows nothing at all. 
Our papers and discussions will be Greek to him. 
If you wanted an extra hand in your stables or a 
jobbing gardener well and good, but I must sincerely 
protest against this abuse of the fundamental pur¬ 
poses of our society. 

Yours sincerely, 

Ephraim Baldwin. 

FANNY CHILDERS TO ELSPETH PRITCHARD 

Dear old Thing, 

I must tell you about a perfect scream that is 
happening here. You know the Tibbelsford literary 
society that Pa belongs to, and also Jimmy Weekes? 
Well, it’s like this. Dear Old Jimmy is always doing 
something eccentric. The latest thing is he has dis¬ 
covered a mechanic in the leather trade with a soul! 
(I’m not sure I ought not to spell it the other way). 
He is also an ex-soldier and was out in the East. 
He seems to have become imbued with what they 
called “Eastern romanticism.” Anyway, he wanted 
to join the Society, and old Weekes rushed Pa into 
seconding him, and they got him through. And now 
a lot of the others are up in arms about it—especially 
old Baldwin—you know, we call him “Permanga¬ 
nate of Potash.” If you saw him you’d know why, 
but I can’t tell you. I have been to two of the 


A MAN OF LETTERS 


259 


meetings specially to observe the mechanic with 
the soul. He is really quite a dear. A thick-set, 
square-chinned little man with enormous hands with 
a heavy silver ring on the third finger of his left, and 
tattoo marks on his right wrist. He sits there with 
his hands spread out on his knees and stares round 
at the members as though he thinks they are a lot 
of lunatics. The first evening he came the paper 
was on “The influence of Erasmus on modern 
theology,” and the second evening “The drama of 
the Restoration.” No wonder the poor soul looks 
bewildered. He never says a word. How is Tiny? 
I was in town on Thursday and got a duck of a hat. 
Do come over soon. 

Crowds of love, 

Fan. 


JAMES WEEKES TO ALFRED CODLING 

My dear Codling, 

I quite appreciate your difficulty. I would sug¬ 
gest that you read the following books in the order 
named. You will find them in my library: 

Jevon’s “Primer of Logic,” 

Welton’s “Manual of Logic,” 

Brackenbury’s “Primer of Psychology,” and 
Professor James’ “Text book of Psychology,” 
Do not be discouraged! 

Sincerely yours, 

James Weekes. 


260 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING 

Dear Alf, 

I dont think you treat me quite fare You says you 
are sweet on me and that and then you go on in this 
funny way It isnt my fait that you got the wind up in 
Egypt I dont know what you mean by all this I wish 
the ole littery soc was dead and finish. Cook say you 
probibly want a blue pill you was so glum Sunday. 
Dont you see all these gents and girls and edicated 
coves are pullin youre leg if you dont know what they 
talkin about and that Your just makin a fule of 
yourself and then what about me you dont think of 
me its makin me a fule too. Milly says she wouldent 
have no truck with a book lowse so there it is. 

Annie. 

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. 

Dear Sir, 

I am much oblidged to you for puttin me on them 
books It beats me how they work up these things. 
I’m afeard I’m not scollard enough to keep the pace 
with these sayins and that. Its the same with the 
littery I lissen to the talk and sometimes I think Ive 
got it and then no. Sometimes I feels angry with 
the things said I know the speakers wrong but I cant 
say I feel they wrong but I dont know what to say to 
say it. Theres some things to big to say isnt that 
sir. Im much oblidged to you sir for what you done 


A MAN OF LETTERS 


261 


Beleive me I enjoy the littery altho I most always 
dont know the talk I know who are the rite ones 
and who are the rong ones If you have been throw 
what I have been throw you would know the same 
sir Beleive me your 

obedient servant 

Alfred Codling. 

EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE, SECRETARY TO 
THE TIBBELSFORD LITERARY SOCIETY 

Dear Jope, 

For my paper on the 19th prox. I propose to dis¬ 
cuss “The influence of Hegelism on modern psy¬ 
chology.” 

Yours ever, 

Ephraim Baldwin. 

EDWIN JOPE TO EPHRAIM BALDWIN 

Dear Mr. Baldwin, 

I have issued the notices of your forthcoming 
paper. The subject, I am sure, will make a great 
appeal to our members, and I feel convinced that we 
are in for an illuminating and informative evening. 
With regard to our little conversation on Wednesday 
last, I am entirely in agreement with you with re¬ 
gard to the quite inexplicable action of Weekes in 
introducing the “leather mechanic” into the society. 
It appears to me a quite superfluous effrontery to put 
upon our members. We do not want to lose Weekes 
but I feel that he ought to be asked to give some 


262 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

explanation of his conduct. As you remark, it 
lowers the whole standard of the society. We might 
as well admit agricultural labourers, burglars, grooms 
and barmaids, and the derelicts of the town. I 
shall sound the opinion privately of other members. 

With kind regards, 

Yours sincerely, 
Edwin Jope. 

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING 

All right then you stick to your old littery. I am 
sendin you back your weddin ring you go in and out 
of that place newer thinkin of me Aunt siad how it 
would be you goin off and cetterer and gettin ideas 
into your head what do you care I doant think you 
care at all I expeck you meet a lot of these swell heads 
there men and women and you get talkin and thinkin 
you someone All these years you away I wated for 
you faithfull I never had a thowt for other fellers and 
then you go on like this and treat me in this way 
Aunt says she wouldnt put up and Milly says a book 
lowse is worse than no good and so I say goodby and 
thats how it is now forever You have broken my 
hart 

Anne. 

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING 

I cried all nite I didndt mean quite all I says you 
know how I mene dear Alf if you was only reesonible 


A MAN OF LETTERS 


263 

I doant mind you goin the littery if you eggsplain 
yourself For Gawds sake meet me tonight by the 
fire stachon and eggsplain everything. 

Your broke hearted 
Anne. 

JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS 

My dear Sam, 

I hope Harrogate is having the desired effect upon 
you. I was about to say that you have missed few 
events of any value or interest during your absence, 
but I feel I must qualify that statement. You have 
missed a golden moment. The great Baldwin eve¬ 
ning has come and gone and I deplore the fact that 
you were not there. My sense of gratification, how¬ 
ever, is not due to Ephraim himself but to my un¬ 
popular protege and white elephant—Alfred Codling. 
I tell you it was glorious! Ephraim spoke for an 
hour and a half, the usual thing, a dull rechauffee of 
Schopenhauer and Hegel, droning forth platitudes 
and half-baked sophistries. When it was finished 
the chairman asked if anyone else wished to speak. 
To my amazement my ex-lance-corporal rose heavily 
to his feet. His face was brick red and his eyes 
glowed with anger. He pointed his big fingers at 
Ephraim and exclaimed: “Yes, talk, talk, talk— 
that’s all it is. There’s nothing in it at all!” and he 
hobbled out of the room (you know he was wounded 
in the right foot). The position, as you may imagine. 


264 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

was a little trying. I did not feel in the mood to stay 
and make apologies. I hurried after Codling. I 
caught him up at the end of the lane. I said, “Cod¬ 
ling, why did you do that?” He could not speak 
for a long time, then he said: “I’m sorry, sir. It 
came over me like, all of a sudden.” We walked on. 
At the corner by Harvey’s mill we met a girl. Her 
face was wet—there was a fine rain pouring at the 
time. They looked at each other these two, then 
she suddenly threw out her arms and buried her face 
on his chest. I realized that this was no place for me 
and I hurried on. The following morning I re¬ 
ceived the enclosed letter. Please return it to me. 

Yours ever, 

James. 

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES 

Dear Sir, 

Please to !rrase my name from the littery soc. I 
feel I have treated you bad about it but there it is. 
I apologize to you for treatin you bad like this that 
is all I regret You have always been kind and 
pleesant to me lendin me the books and that. I 
shall always be grateful to you for what you have 
done. It all came over me sudden like last night 
while that chap was spoutin out about what you call 
phywlogy. I had never heard tell on the word till 
you put me on to it and now they all talk about it. 
I looked it up in the diction and it says somethin 


A MAN OF LETTERS 265 

about the science of mind and that chap went on 
spoutin about it. I had quarrel with my girl we had 
newer quarrel before and I was very down abowt it. 
She is the best girl a feller could wish and I have 
always said so. Somehow last night while he was 
spoutin on it came over me sudden I thowt of the 
nights I had spent alone in the dessert when it was 
all quite and missterous and big. I had been throw 
it all sir. I had seen my pals what was alive one 
minnit blown to peices the next. I had tramped 
hundreds of miles and gone without food and watter. 
I had seen hell itsel sir And when you are always 
with death like that sir you are always so much alive 
You are alive and then the next minnit you may be 
dead and it makes you want to feel in touch like with 
everythin You cant hate noone when you like that 
You think of the other feller over there whose thinkin 
like you are prehaps and he all alone to lookin up the 
blinkin stars and it comes over you that its only love 
that holds us all together love and nothin else at all 
My hart was breakin thinkin of Annie what I had 
treated so bad and what I had been throw and he 
went on spoutin and spoutin What does he know 
about physology You have to had been very near 
death to find the big things thats what I found out 
and I couldnt tell these littery blokes that thats why 
I lost my temper and so please to irrase me from the 
soc They cant teach me nothen that matters I’ve 
seen it all and I cant teach them nothen because they 
havent been throw it What I have larnt is sir that 


266 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

theres somethin big in our lives apart from getting 
on and comfits and good times and so sir I am much 
oblidged for all you done for me and except my 
appology for the way I treat you 

Your obedient servant, 

Alfred Codling. 

JAMES WEEKES TO EDWIN JOPE 

Dear Jope, 

In reply to your letter, I cannot see my way to 
apologize or even dissociate myself with the views 
expressed by Mr. Alfred Codling at our last meeting, 
consequently I must ask you to accept my resig¬ 
nation. 

Yours very truly, 

James Weekes. 

SAMUEL CHILDERS TO EDWIN JOPE 

Dear Jope, 

Taking into consideration all the circumstances of 
the case, I must ask you to accept my resignation 
from the Tibbelsford Literary Society. 

Yours faithfully, 

S. Childers. 

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING 

My dear Alf, 

Of course its all right. I am all right now dear Alf 


A MAN OF LETTERS 


267 

I will try and be a good wife to you I amnt clever 
like you with all your big thowts and that but I will 
and be a good wife to you Aunt Em is goin to give 
us thathorses-hair and mother saystherellbe tweanty- 
five pounds comin to me when Uncle Steve pegs out 
and he has the dropsie all right already What do 
you say to Aperil if we can git that cottidge of Mrs. 
Plummers mothers See you Sunday 

love from 

xxxxxxxxxx Annie. 

EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE 

Dear Mr. Jope, 

As no apology has been forthcoming to me from 
any quarter for the outrageous insult I was subjected 
to on the occasion of my last paper, I must ask you to 
accept my resignation. 

Yours faithfully, 
Ephraim Baldwin, O.B.E. 

ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS 

My dear Anne, 

You will be please to hear they made me foreman 
this will mean an increas and so on I think April; 
will be alright Mr. Weekes sent me check for fifty 
pounds to start farnishin but I took it back I said no 
I could not accep it havin done nothin to earn it and 
treatin him so bad over that littery soc but he said 
yes and he put it in such a way that I accep after all 


268 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


so we shall be alright for farnishin at the present 
He was very kind and he says we was to go to him 
at any time and I was to go on readin the books he 
says I shall find good things in them but not the 
littery soc he says he has left it hisself I feel I treated 
him very bad but I could not stand that feller spoutin 
and him newer havin been throw it like what I have 
That dog of Charly’s killed one of Mrs. Reeves 
chickens Monday so must now close till Sunday with 
love from 

Your soon husband (dont it sound funny?) 

Alf. 


EDWIN JOPE TO WALTER BUNNING 

Dear Sir, 

In reply to your letter I beg to say that the Tibbels- 
ford Literary Society is dissolved. 

Yours faithfully, 

E. Jope. 


“FACE” 


I T WILL not, of course, surprise you to know that 
it was at the Cravenford National School that he 
was first known as “ Face.” The people of Essex 
are well-known for their candour and lucidity of 
expression. He was an exceptionally—well, plain 
boy. There was nothing abnormal, or actually 
mal-formed about him, it was only that his features 
had that perambulatory character which is the 
antithesis of classic. It was what the Americans 
call a “ homely ” face. The proportions were all just 
wrong, the ears slightly protruding, the jaw too 
lantern, the eyes actually too wide apart. More¬ 
over, his figure was clumsy in the extreme. He 
seemed all hands, and feet, and knees, and chin. It 
was impossible for him to pass any object without 
kicking it. Neither was his personality enhanced 
by his manner, which was taciturn and sullen, gauche 
in the extreme. The games and amusements of 
other boys held no attractions for him. He made no 
friends, exchanged no confidences, distinguished him¬ 
self at nothing. Yet those of the impatient world 
who found time to devote a second glance to 
this uncouth exterior were bound to be impressed by 
the appeal of those deep brown expectant eyes- 
269 


270 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

They were not essentially intelligent eyes, but 
they had a kind of breadth of sympathy, a profound 
watchfulness, like the eyes of some caged animal 
to whom the full functions of its being had not so far 
been revealed. 

It was the universality of this nick-name, “Face,” 
w T hich preserved it, for the boys of Cravenford 
National School knew that Caleb Fryatt resented 
it, and individually they feared him. That very 
clumsiness and imperviousness of his was apt to be 
overwhelming when adapted to militant purposes. 
Not that he was easy to rouse, but it was difficult to 
know when he was roused—he gave no outward 
manifestation of it—but when he was, it was difficult 
to get him to stop. He was a grim and merciless 
fighter, who could take punishment with a kind of 
morbid relish. It only inspired him to a more 
terrible onslaught. The boys preferred to attack 
him in company, and then usually vocally, by peep¬ 
ing over the churchyard wall and calling out: 

“Face! Face! Oh, my! There’s a face!” 

The tragic setting of his home life explained much. 
He had had a brother and two elder sisters, all of 
whom had died in infancy. He lived with his father 
and mother in a meagre dilapidated cottage a mile 
beyond the church. His father worked at a stud 
farm, at such moments as the mood for work was 
upon him. He was a man of morose and vicious 
temper, quickened by spasmodic outbreaks of alco¬ 
holic indulgence. Of poor physique, he was never- 


“ FACE 


271 

theless a dangerous engine of destruction in these 
moods, particularly in respect to the frailer sex. 
Caleb had been brought up in a code which recog¬ 
nized unquestioningly the right of might, which 
accepted tears and blows as a natural concomitant 
to its reckoning. He had stood powerless and 
affrighted at the vision of his little mother beaten 
unreasonably almost to insensibility, and he had 
never heard her complain. His own body was 
scarred by the thousand attentions of sticks and 
belts. He, too, had not complained. In some dumb 
way he suffered more from the blows his mother 
received than he did from those he received him¬ 
self. 

But he was growing up now—ugly, clumsy old 
“Face.” When at the age of fourteen he passed 
through the first standard and out of the school, he 
was already as tall as his father, and somewhat 
thicker in girth, more agile, tougher in fibre. The 
significance of this development did not occur to him 
at the time. He was sent to work at Sam Hurds’, 
the blacksmith, a dour, intelligent, religious giant, 
who instructed him in the intricacies of his craft 
with relentless thoroughness, but without much 
sympathy. The boy liked the work, although he 
showed no great aptitude at it. He had a way of 
plodding on, appearing to understand, serving long 
hours, and then in a period of abstraction forgetting 
all that he had been told. He loved the blazing 
forge, the clang of metal upon metal, the sheen 


272 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

upon the carter’s horses that came in to be shod 
the sunlight making patterns on the road out¬ 
side. . . . 

He was two years with Sam Hurds. At seventeen 
his muscles were like a man’s. His overgrown, 
hulking body like a fully developed farm labourer’s. 
His appearance had not improved. Even the smith 
adopted the village nick-name and called him 
“Face.” At first it was “Young Face,” then 
“Face,” then as their sombre familiarity developed, 
and the smith realized the boy’s sound qualities and 
the something far too old for his years, it became 
“Old Face.” He knew that his assistant had no 
powers of adaptability, little invention, not a very 
real grasp of the essentials, but at the same time he 
knew he could trust him. He would do precisely as 
he was told. He would stick to it. He could be 
relied upon like a sheep dog. Nothing could shift 
him from his post of duty. 

The smith was right, but he had not allowed for 
those outward thrusts of fate which upset the sober¬ 
est plans. 

One night Caleb arrived home and found his 
mother crying. He had never seen her cry before. 
He regarded her spell-bound. 

“What is it, mother?” 

“Nothing, lad, nothing. Come, your tea’s keep¬ 
ing warm upon the hob. There’s a pasty-” 

“Nay, you wouldn’t cry for nowt, mother. Lift 
up your head.” 


FACE 


273 

She lifted up her head and dashed the tears away, 
but as she moved toward the kitchen he noticed that 
she was trying to conceal a limp. He caught her up. 

“He has been striking you again.” 

“It’s nothing, lad.” 

“Show me.” 

He pulled her down to him and she wept again. 
Lifting the hem of her skirt, she revealed her leg 
above the ankle, bound up in linen. 

“He kicked me, dear, but it is nothing. It will 
pass.” 

Caleb ate his tea in silence. His table manners 
were never of the finest, and on this occasion he 
masticated his food, and swilled his tea, like an animal 
preoccupied with some disturbance of its normal life. 
Afterward he sat apart and thought, his mother 
busy with household matters. Later she popped 
across the road to a neighbouring cottage to borrow 
some ointment. 

While she was out his father returned. It was 
getting dark, and a fine rain was beginning to fall. 
His father came stumbling up the cottage garden 
singing. Caleb blocked his passage in the little 
entrance hall, and said deliberately: 

“You didn’t ought to have kicked mother.” 

His father, emerging from the shock of surprise, 
scowled at him. 

“What’s that?” 

“You didn’t ought to have kicked mother.” 

For a moment Stephen Fryatt was speechless, 


274 M/SS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

then he lurched forward and pushed his son away. 

“What the devil’s it to do with you, whipper- 
snapper ?” 

Caleb thrust his father back against the wall and 
repeated! 

“You didn’t ought to have kicked her.” 

Then Stephen saw red. He struck at his son with 
his clenched hand, and the blow split the boy’s ear. 
Caleb took his father by the throat and shook him. 
The latter tried to bring his knee into play. At this 
foul method of attack, Caleb, too, became angry. 
Those long powerful fingers gripped tighter. He 
closed up, and flung his father’s body against the 
lintel of the door. He did not realize his own newly 
developed strength. When his mother returned a 
little later she found her man lying in the passage 
with the back of his head in a pool of blood, her son 
hovering ghost-like in the background. She gave 
a cry: 

“What’s this ye’ve done, Caleb?” 

A hollow voice came out of the darkness: 

“He didn’t ought to have kicked ye, mother.” 

She screamed and, kneeling upon the floor, she 
supported the battered head upon her knee. It 
appeared an unrecognizable thing, the hair so much 
blacker in the ivory-hued face, the eyes staring 
stupidly. 

Followed then a shifting phantasmagoria, scenes 
and emotions incomprehensible to the defender. 
Neighbours, and doctors and policemen, talking and 


“FACE” 


275 

arguing, whispering together, pointing at him. He 
was led away. In all that early turmoil, and in the 
more bewildering proceedings which followed, the 
one thing which impressed him deeply was the 
attitude of his mother. She had changed toward 
him entirely. She accused him, reviled him, even 
cursed him. He would ponder upon this in his dark 
cell at night. He had never imagined that his 
mother could have loved his father—not in that way, 
not to that extent. His brown ox-like eyes tried 
to penetrate the darkness for some solution. He 
had no fear as to what they would do with him, but 
everything was inexplicable . . . unsatisfying. 

The days and weeks which followed—he lost all sense 
of time—added to the sense of mystification. He 
appeared to be passed from one judge to another, 
beginning with a gentleman in a tweed suit and 
knickerbockers, and ending with a very old man in 
a white wig and gold-rimmed glasses, of whom only 
the head and the thin pale fingers seemed visible. 
Yes, yes, why did they keep on torturing him like 
this? He had answered all the questions again and 
again, always giving the same replies, always ending 
up with the solemn asseveration: 

“He didn’t ought to have kicked her.” 

At the same time he had never meant to kill his 
father. He had under-estimated his strength. He 
had become very strong in the forge. His father had 
attacked him first. It was unfortunate that the back 
of Mr. Fryatt’s head had struck the sharp corner of 


276 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

the lintel post. He was in any case crazy with 
drink. The boy was only seventeen. He believed 
he was defending his mother. Of course, these pleas 
were not his. This version of the case had not oc¬ 
curred to him, but to his surprise a learned-looking 
gentleman, who had visited him in his cell, had stood 
up in Court and made them vehemently. And 
hearing the case put like that Caleb nodded his 
head. He hadn't thought of it in that light, but it 
was quite true. Oh, but the arguments which 
ensued! The long words and phrases, the delays, 
and pomp and uncertainty. Never once did the 
question seem to come up as to whether his father 
“ought to have done it,” or not. According to his 
mother his father appeared to have been almost a 
paragon of a father. 

It was all settled at last, and he was sent away to a 
“Home” for two years. 

Home! The ironic travesty of the word pene¬ 
trated his thick skull immediately he had passed 
what looked like a prison gate. There were two 
hundred boys in this home. It seemed strange to 
live in a home ruled over by a governor in uniform, 
policed by gaolers and superintendents. Strange 
to have a home one could not leave at will, where iron 
discipline turned one out at dawn, drove one like a 
slave to long hours of hard and uncongenial work. 
Strange that home should breathe bitterness and 
distrust, that it should be under a code which seemed 
to repeat eternally: 


FACE 


“Don’t forget you are a criminal. Young as yet, 
but the taint is in you!” 

It was true there were momentary relaxations, 
football and other games which he detested, bleak 
and interminable services in a chapel, organ recitals 
and concerts. The other boys disgusted him with 
their endless obscenities and suggestions, their uni¬ 
versal conviction that the great thing was to “get 
through it,” so as to be able to resume those criminal 
practices inherent in them, practices which the home 
did nothing to eradicate or relieve. 

If “Old Face” had not been of the toughest fibre, 
dull witted, impervious, and in a sense unawakened, 
those two years would have broken him. As it was 
they dulled his sensibilities even more, they em¬ 
bittered him. Those brown eyes had almost lost 
that straining glance of expectancy, as though the 
home had taught him that there was nothing for him 
in any case to expect. He was a criminal, hall¬ 
marked for eternity. When he had been there six 
months they sent for him to go and visit the chaplain. 
That good man looked very impressive, and an¬ 
nounced that the governor had received information 
that Caleb’s mother was dead, and that it was his 
solemn duty to break the news to him. He appeared 
relieved that the boy did not at once burst into tears. 
He then delivered a little homily on life and death, 
and pointed out that it was Caleb’s evil and vicious 
actions which had hastened his mother’s death. He 
advised him to pour out his heart in penitence to 


278 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

God, who was always our Rock and Saviour in times 
of tribulation. He quoted passages from Leviticus, 
and Caleb stared at him dully, thinking the while: 

“Til never see my mother again, never, never.’ , 

He did not give way to grief. The news only be¬ 
wildered him the more. He went about his duties in 
the home stolidly. He was quite an exemplary 
inmate, hardly up to the average standard of quick¬ 
ness and intelligence, but quiet, obedient, and well 
behaved. At the end of his term of service he was 
sent up before the governor and other officials. The 
clumsy scrawl of his signature was demanded upon 
innumerable forms. He believed he was once more 
to be a free man. And so he was in a qualified sense. 
But he was not to escape without the seal of the 
institution being indelibly stamped upon him. In 
round-about phrases the governor explained that he 
was to leave the home, but he was not to imagine 
that he was a free agent to go about the world 
murdering whomever he liked. He was still a 
criminal, requiring supervision and watching. Out 
of their Christian charity the governors had found 
employment for him at a timber merchant’s at 
Bristol. Thither he would go, but he must remember 
that he was still under their protection. Every few 
weeks he must report to the police. Any act of 
disobedience on his part would be treated—well, by 
a sterner authority. On the next occasion he would 
not be sent to a nice comfortable establishment like 
the home, where they played football and had con- 


“FACE” 


279 

certs, but to Wormwood Scrubbs or Dartmoor. Did 
he understand? Oh, yes, Caleb understood—at 
least, partly. He was to be free, free in a queer way. 

The arrangement did not exactly tally with his 
sense of freedom, any more than this building tallied 
with his idea of home, but he was only nineteen and 
his body was strong and his spirit not completely 
broken. Any ideas he may have entertained that the 
new life was going to spell freedom in any sense were 
quickly shattered. The timber merchant at Bristol 
was a man named Barnet, a tyrant of the worst 
description. He knew the kind of material he was 
handling. Most of his employees were ex-convicts, 
ticket-of-Ieave-men, Lascars, or social derelicts. He 
acted accordingly. Caleb slept in a shed with nine 
other men, four of whom were coloured. They 
worked ten hours’ a day loading timber on barges. 
They were given greasy cocoa and bread at six o’clock 
in the morning, a meal of potatoes and little square 
lumps of hard meat at twelve, then tea and bread at 
four o’clock in the afternoon. In addition to this he 
was paid twelve shillings a week. The slightest act 
of insubordination or slackness was met with the 
threat: 

“ Here, you! Any more of that and you go back to 
where you came from!” 

Before he had been there a month he felt that the 
home was indeed a home in comparison. Strangely 
enough, it was one of the coloured men who rescued 
him from his thraldom, a pleasant voiced coon with 


280 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


only one eye. He appeared to take a fancy to Caleb. 
One night he came to him and whispered: 

“Say, boss, would you like to beat it?” 

It took some time for the boy from Cravenford to 
understand the coloured man's phraseology and plan, 
but when he did, he fell in with it with alacrity. The 
following Saturday they visited a little public-house 
down by the docks and were there introduced to a 
grizzled mate. Hands were wanted on a merchant¬ 
man sailing for Buenos Ayres the following week. 
The coloured man was a free agent and he signed on, 
and Caleb signed on in the name of J. Bullock. Two 
nights before sailing he hid in a barge and joined his 
ship the following morning. All day long he experi¬ 
enced the tremors of dread for the first time in his life. 
The primitive instinct of escape and the call of the sea 
was upon him. He could have danced with joy when 
he heard the rattling of the chains, and the hoarse 
cries of the deck hands as the big ship got under way 
at dusk. 

The voyage to Buenos Ayres was uneventful. The 
work was hard and the discipline severe, but he was 
conscious all the time of sensing the first draught of 
freedom that he had experienced since he left his 
village. This feeling was accentuated at port when 
he realized that after being paid off, he was free to 
leave the ship. But the rigid magnificence of Buenos 
Ayres depressed him. He learnt that after unloading 
they were to refit and convey cattle to Durban in 
South Africa, so he signed on again for the next voy- 


“FACE 


281 

age. This proved to be a formidable experience. 
A week out they ran into very heavy seas. He was 
detailed to attend the cattle. The cattle super¬ 
intendent was a drunken bully. The stench among 
the cattle pens, added to the violent heaving of the 
ship, brought on sickness, but he was not allowed 
any respite. The cattle themselves were seasick, 
and many of them died and had to be thrown over¬ 
board. The voyage lasted three weeks, and when he 
arrived at Durban he determined to try his luck once 
more as a landsman. At that time there was plenty 
of demand for unskilled labour for men of Caleb’s 
physique in South Africa, but it was poorly paid. 
He drifted about the country doing odd jobs. He 
visited Cape Town, Kimberly and Pietermaritzburg. 
The fever of wanderlust was upon him. He never 
remained in one situation for more than a few months. 
He was the man who desired to see over the ridge. 
Perhaps further, just a little further, would be—he 
knew not what, some answer to the inexpressible 
yearning within him, deep calling unto deep. At 
the age of twenty-two he was working on the railroad 
near Nyanza. They came and told him about the 
great war, which had just started in Europe. A 
keen-faced little man, one of the gangers, tapped him 
on the shoulder and said: 

“It’s lucky for you lad you’re out here. Otherwise 
they’d be telling you that ‘your king and country 
need you’.” 

The phrase disturbed him. Night after night he 


282 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


lay awake dreaming of England. Memories of the 
home and of the timber-merchant at Bristol vanished. 
He thought only of Cravenford, the gray ivy-coloured 
church, the rambling high street, the pond by Mr. 
Larry’s farm, the cross-roads where he and another 
boy named Stoddard had fought one April after¬ 
noon, his mother’s cottage, now, alas! deserted, 
but always sacred, old Sam Hurds banging away in 
the smithy, the rooks circling above the great elms in 
the park—all, all these things were perhaps in danger 
whilst he lay sulking in a foreign land. They had 
called him “Face.” Well, why not? He knew 
he was not particularly pre-possessing, The fellow 
workmen had always been at great pains to point 
this out to him. But still—stolidly and indifferently 
he went about his work, and then one day in the old 
manner he vanished. . . . 

We will not attempt to record Caleb’s experiences 
of the war. He had no difficulty in joining a volun¬ 
teer unit in Capetown, which was drafted to England. 
There he asked to be transferred to one of his own 
county regiments. The request was overlooked in 
the clamour of those days. He found himself with a 
cockney infantry regiment, and he remained with it 
through the whole course of the war. His life was 
identical to that of his many million comrades. In 
some respects he seemed to enjoy lapses of greater 
freedom than he had experienced for a long time. 
He was better fed, better clothed, better looked after. 
He had money in his pocket which he knew not what 


FACE 


283 


to do with. He made a good soldier, doing un- 
questioningly what he was told, sticking* grimly to 
his post, being completely indifferent to danger. 

Save for a few months on the Italian front, he 
served the whole time in France. He was slightly 
wounded three times, and in 1917 was awarded a 
military cross for an astounding feat of bravery in 
bombing a German dug-out and killing five of the 
enemy single-handed in the dark. Those queer 
spiritual strivings so deep down in his nature derived 
no satisfaction from the war. It was all quite 
meaningless and incomprehensible. When he left 
South Africa he had an idea that the fighting would 
be in England. He visualized grim battles in the 
fields beyond Cravenford, and he and the other boys 
from the school defending their village. He had 
never conceived that a war could be like this. Some¬ 
times he would lie awake at night and ruminate 
vaguely upon the queer perversity of fate which 
suddenly made murder popular. He had been 
turned out of England because he had quite inad¬ 
vertently killed his father for kicking his mother 
across the shins, and now he was praised for killing 
five men within a few minutes. He didn’t know, of 
course, but perhaps some of those men—particularly 
that elderly plump man who coughed absurdly as he 
ran on to Caleb’s bayonet—perhaps they were 
better men than his father, although foreigners, 
although enemy. It was very perplexing. . . . 

After a gray eternity of time, the thing came to an 


284 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

end. He found himself back in England. During 
the war much had been forgotten and forgiven. No 
one asked him for his credentials. The police never 
interfered with him. With his three wound stripes, 
his military cross, and his papers all in order, he was 
for a time a persona grata. 

He had a bonus beyond the pay which he had 
saved, and he had never been so wealthy in his life. 
He stayed in London, and tried to adapt himself to a 
life of luxury and freedom, but he was not happy. 
In restaurants he was self-conscious, in theatres 
bored, in the streets bewildered. And so one day he 
set out and returned to his native village. Strangely, 
little had it altered! There was the church, the 
smithy, and the old street all just the same. He 
called on the smith, who was startled at the sight of 
him, but on perceiving his stripes and ribbons, 
reasonably polite. He ransacked the village for old 
friends. Alas! How many of his school associates 
had gone, never to return. He called on Mr. Green, 
the miller, Mrs. Allport, at the general shop, Bob 
Canning, the carrier. Oh, dear me! yes, they all 
remembered him, were quite courteous, glad he had 
done well at the war, got through safely. Well, 
well! And soon the story got round. “Old Face 
has returned. Old Face! The boy who murdered 
his father!” 

The novelty of his re-appearance and return soon 
wore off, and he knew that he was held in distrust in 
the village. He wandered far afield, and eventually 


“FACE 


285 

obtained employment at a brick-works at Keeble, 
four miles down the valley toward Blaizing-Killstoke. 
Here the rumours concerning him gradually perco¬ 
lated, but they carried little weight or significance. 
He was a good workman, and time subdues all 
things. 

Then the strangest miracle happened to Caleb 
Fryatt. He was nearly thirty, hard-bitten, battered, 
ill-mannered, with a scar from a bullet on his left 
cheek, little money, no prospects and no ambition— 
an unattractive chunk of a man. But what should 
we all do if love itself were not the greatest miracle of 
all? Anne Tillie was by no means a beauty herself, 
but she was not without attraction. She had a 
round, bright red ingenuous face, a heavily built 
figure with rather high shoulders and long arms. 
She was a year older than Caleb and inclined to be 
deaf, but there was a transparent honesty and 
simplicity about her. One could see that she would 
be honest, loyal, and true to all her purposes. She 
was the daughter of the postman at Blaizing-Kill¬ 
stoke. She and Caleb used to meet in the evenings 
and wander the lanes together. They did not appear 
to converse very much, but they would occasionally 
laugh, and give each other a hearty push. To her 
father’s disgust, these attentions led to marriage the 
following year. They went to live in a tiny cottage 
on the outskirts of Keeble, ten minutes’ bicycle ride 
from the works. Anne made an excellent wife. She 
seemed to understand and adapt herself to her 


286 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


husband’s idiosyncrasies. She kept the cottage 
spotlessly clean, tended his clothes, and kept him 
in clean linen, cooked well, and studied all his little 
wants and peculiarities. She found time to attend 
to the garden, grow her own vegetables, and even see 
after a dozen fowls. 

Caleb had never enjoyed such material comfort. 
In the evening they would sit either side of the fire, 
he with his pipe and she with her sewing. They 
were an unusually silent couple. Apart from her 
deafness, they never seemed prompted to exchange 
more than cursory remarks about the weather, their 
food, or some matter of local gossip. In the summer 
they sat in the garden, and watching the blue smoke 
from his pipe curl away into the amber light of the 
setting sun, Caleb felt that he had reached a haven 
after a restless storm. He worked remorsely hard 
at the brick-works, and in two years’ time was made 
a kiln foreman, receiving good wages. Malevolent 
people still whispered the story concerning the boy 
who murdered his father, and pointed an accusing 
finger at the back of his bulky form, but no one 
dared to remind Anne of that tragic happening. 
She knew the full details of it quite well, and woe 
to any unfortunate individual who dared to suggest 
that her man was in the wrong! In course of time he 
built a barn, and a toolshed, and they bought an 
adjoining orchard. They kept pigs, and then a pony 
and trap, and on Thursdays Anne would drive to 
market, and sell eggs, and chickens and apples. Oh, 


“FACE” 


287 

yes, they were becoming a prosperous pair. Caleb 
had surely outlived the ugly vicissitudes of his fate. 
Was he happy? Was he completely satisfied? Who 
shall say? The promptings from the soul come from 
some deep root no one has fathomed. He was con¬ 
scious of a greater peace than he had ever known. 
He sometimes hummed a quite unrecognizable tune 
as he went about his work. The mornings enchanted 
him with gossamer webs gleaming with dew, swinging 
between the flowers. But the eyes still sometimes 
appeared to be seeking—one knows not what. 

They had been married five years and seven 
months when the child was born. It came as a great 
surprise to Caleb. He had hardly dared to visualize 
such an eventuality. What a to-do there was in the 
cottage! Another room to be prepared, strange 
garments suddenly appearing upon the line in the 
kitchen, a visiting nurse somewhat important and 
discursive. 

“A boy! Ho!” thought Caleb, as he trundled 
along on his bicycle the following morning. A boy 
who would grow up and perhaps become like him¬ 
self. Well, that was very strange, very remarkable. 
Most remarkable that such a possibility had never 
occurred to him. All day long, and for nights and 
weeks after he thought about the boy who was going 
one day to be a man like himself. The thought at 
first worried and perplexed him. Was he—had he 
been—the kind of man the world would want per¬ 
petuated? He felt the fierce censure and distrust 


288 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 


mankind had always lavished upon himself beginning 
to focus upon the boy, and gradually the protective 
sense developed in him to a desperate degree. The 
boy should have better chances than he ever had, the 
boy should be protected, cared for, shown the way of 
things. . . . Caleb ruminated. His wife be¬ 

came very dear to him. He was a man on the thres¬ 
hold of revelation. But before his eyes had fully 
opened to the complete realization of all that this 
meant to him, a wayward gust of fever shattered the 
spectrum. The little fellow died when barely four 
months old. For a time Caleb was most deeply con¬ 
cerned for the health of his wife, who was a victim 
of the same scourge, but, as she gradually recovered, 
a feeling of unendurable melancholy crept over him. 
He began to observe the gray perspective of his life, 
its past and future. When Anne was once more 
normal, their intercourse became more taciturn 
than ever. There fell between them long, empty 
silences. There were times when he regarded her 
with boredom, almost with aversion. The years 
would roll on . . . wander-spirit would assail 

him. He would be tempted to pick up his cap and go 
forth and seek some port, where a ship under ballast 
might be preparing to essay the vast insecurity of 
heaving waters. But something told him that that 
would be cruel. His wife’s love for him was the 
most moving experience of his life, far greater than 
his love for her. She was middle-aged now, and her 
deafness was more pronounced than ever. 


FACE 


289 

Once she went away to stay with her father for a 
few days. The morning after she left, a wall in the 
brickyard collapsed and crushed his right foot. He 
was carried home in excruciating pain. A neighbour 
came in and attended him and they fetched the 
doctor. They wanted to send for his wife but he 
told them not to bother her. All night he was 
delirious, and for the next two days and nights he 
went through a period of torment. As the fever 
abated a deep feeling of depression crept over him. 
He began to yearn for his wife profoundly. The 
neighbour, an elderly woman, wife of the local corn- 
chandler, was kindness itself. But everything she 
did was just wrong. How could she know the way 
Caleb liked things, and he lying there silent and 
uncomplaining? 

On the third evening Anne arrived. She had 
heard the news. She came bustling into the cottage, 
dropped her bag, pressed her lips to his. 

“Silly Billy, why didn’t you send for me?” 

Silly Billy! That was her favourite term of 
raillery when he had behaved foolishly. 

He choked back a desire to cry with relief. 

“It’s nothing, nothing to bother about.” 

But a feeling of deep contentment crept over him. 
His eyes regarded her thick plump figure moving 
busily but quietly about the room. There would be 
nothing now to disturb or annoy him. Everything 
would be done just—just as he liked it. She deftly 
re-arranged the positions of tables, and cups, and 


290 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS ' 

curtains. As the evening wore on she hovered 
above him, watching his every little movement, like 
a tigress watching over its cub. She eased the 
pillow, stroked his hair, and by some adroit manoeu¬ 
vre relieved the pressure on his throbbing leg. A 
deep sense of tranquillity permeated him. For 
the first time for three days he felt the desire to sleep, 
the cottage seemed so inordinately quiet, secure. 
Once when she was stooping near the chair by the 
bed, he seized her rough, strong forearm and pulled 
her to him. He believed he slept at last with her 
cheeks pressed against his own. . . . 

They treated him very well at the brick-works, and 
his wages were paid every week during his absence. 
It was nearly two months before he could get about 
again, and the doctors said he must expect to have a 
permanent limp. Summer vanished in the October 
mists, and a long winter dragged through its course. 
Spring again. Its pulse a little feebler than in the 
old days? Well, well, what could a man expect? 
Some of the old desires raised their heads and tugged 
at his heart-strings. He was very happy—off and on 
a little soiled, perhaps, by the stress of bitter years, a 
little more ordinary, a little more sociable. He 
sometimes visited “The Green Man” and would 
drink beer with Mr. White, the corn-chandler, and 
old Tom Smethwick. And after a glass or two he 
would be quite a social acquisition, and would be 
inclined to boast a little of his deeds in the Great 
War, and of his adventures in foreign lands. No 


“FACE 


harm in it. Not such a bad sort, Old Face, the boy 
who murdered his father. 

Heigho! But how the years ravage us! 'Twas 
but a while when things were so and so, and now. . . . 
He was forty-four when two disturbing factors came 
into his life, threatening to wreck its calm tenor, and 
they occurred almost simultaneously. There was a 
girl at the brick-works who came from London. She 
was the manager's secretary and she worked in his 
office. Oh, but she was a smart piece of goods, and 
the men never tired of discussing her. In the early 
twenties, distinctly pretty, with a mass of chestnut 
hair, pert manners and a wrist watch. Passing 
through the yards, she would sometimes chat with 
the men at the kilns, and in their dinner hour she 
would laugh and joke with them. Their estimate of 
her was not always expressed in very refined or 
flattering language. Old Ingleton, the time-keeper, 
swore she had given him the “glad-eye," but as one 
of his own eyes was glass, his confession did not carry 
great weight. She had never singled Caleb out for 
any particular attention although she was always 
friendly with him. The cataclysm came upon him 
quite suddenly one day in late September. He was 
digging a trench by a mound covered with nettles, 
and a few tall sunflowers. It was a glorious day and 
the earth smelt good. He rested on his spade and 
was enjoying the pleasant tranquillity of the scene, 
when the girl came round the corner and looked at 
him. She smiled and exclaimed: 


292 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“A lovely day, Mr. Fryatt!” 

He instinctively touched his hat and said “Ay.” 

And that was the end of the conversation. But 
Caleb watched her walking up the narrow path 
toward the manager’s shanty, and some restless 
fever stirred within him. She was unique. He had 
seen such women from a distance, smartly apparelled, 
walking about the streets of London and Capetown, 
but he had always looked upon them as creatures of a 
different world from his own, and hardly given them 
a thought. But here was one smiling at him, speak¬ 
ing to him. After all, she was not so remote. She 
was a girl, indeed, a working girl, quite accessible and 
friendly. And what a lithesome, dainty figure! 
What an appealing pretty face! Those lips! Ugh! 
A large worm wriggled free from the side of the little 
trench, and quite unreasonably he cut it in half with 
his spade. 

From that moment forward Caleb began to think 
of Agnes Fareham. Alas! He began to dream about 
her also. She was a note of bright and vivid colour 
in the drab monotony of his life. He began to lie 
in wait for her, to force his clumsy attentions upon 
her and she did not seem to resent it unduly. The 
affair became an obsession. His faculty for reasoning 
had never been considerable. In some dim way he 
felt that there was the solution of all those buried 
yearnings and thwarted desires which had accom¬ 
panied him through life. Here was an explanation. 
He was content to be held by the experience, without 


FACE” 


293 

formulating any plan or definite resolution. Whether 
the girl would ultimately succumb to his solicitations, 
whether she would go away with him, and if so how 
he was to manage to keep her; moreover, how he was 
to face the appalling cruelty of his own attitude 
toward Anne—all these questions he put behind him. 
For the moment they appeared immaterial to the 
blinding obsession. One day while still in this 
indeterminate mood he went home as usual to his 
mid-day dinner. As he dismounted his bicycle and 
leant it against the garden fence, Anne came out of 
the cottage and said: 

“ Caleb, there’s a gentleman to see you.” 

He went inside and beheld a small keen-faced 
elderly man, who nodded to him and said: 

“Mr. Caleb Fryatt?” 

“Ay.” 

The little man examined him closely. 

“I will come straight to the business I have in 
hand. I am the head clerk of Rogers, Mason and 
Freeman, solicitors of Blaizing-Killstoke. You, I 
believe, are the only child of Stephen and Mary 
Fryatt, late of Cravenford?” 

“Ay.” 

“You may be aware that your father had a brother, 
named Leonard, in Nova Scotia?” 

“I’ve heard tell on ’ee.” 

“Your uncle died last year. He left a little 
property and no will. My principals are of opinion 
that you are the lawful legatee. They would be 


294 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

obliged if you would pay them a visit so that the 
matter may be fully determined. Here is my card.” 

Caleb stared dully at the piece of pasteboard, but 
Anne who had entered the cottage just previously, 
asked to have the business explained to her. Caleb 
shouted in her ear. Then she turned to the lawyer 
and said: 

“And how much money did his Uncle Leonard 
leave? Do you know, sir?” 

“Quite without prejudice, and entirely between 
ourselves, I believe it is a matter of approximately 
four thousand pounds.” 

It took the whole of the afternoon for this news 
thoroughly to penetrate the skull of the fortunate 
legatee. Indeed, it was not till he had had a pint 
of beer at “The Green Man” on the way home that 
the full significance came home to him. It is to be 
regretted that after his supper he returned to “The 
Green Man,” and for the first time in his life Mr. 
Caleb Fryatt got drunk. He stood drinks lavishly 
and indiscriminately. He told everyone his news. 
The amount became a little distorted. It may have 
been due to the lawyer’s use of the word “approxi¬ 
mately.” This orgy acted upon him disastrously. 
As he reeled up the village street, only one vision 
became clear to him. Agnes! He could take her 
away, buy her a mansion and smart frocks. He could 
take her to hotels and theatres in London. At the 
same time, he could settle money on Anne. He was 
a millionaire. The world belonged to him. With 


“FACE” 


295 

a tremendous effort he controlled his feet and voice 
when he reached the cottage, but he went to bed at 
once. In the morning he had a headache and Anne 
bound his head in damp linen handkerchiefs and 
brought him tea. 

By Monday everyone on the countryside from 
Cravenford to Billows Weir knew that “Old Face, ,, 
the ugly man, known as the boy who murdered his 
father, had come in for a huge fortune left by an 
uncle in Canada. The first person he met in the 
brick-works on Monday was Agnes, who came up to 
him and held out her hand: 

“I believe we are to congratulate you, Mr. Fryatt.” 

He smiled at her foolishly and held her hand an 
unnecessarily long time. There was no doubt she 
had taken to him. She liked him. Could he stir 
her deeper emotion ? 

The weeks went by in a dream. He visited the 
lawyers. Everything was in order. They even 
offered to advance him money. He could not 
visualize the full dimensions of his fortune; neither 
had he the power to act upon it. He still went on 
at the brick-works and the cottage, listening to 
Anne’s sensible admonitions to invest the money in 
small amounts so as to have a nest egg for their old 
age. But he could not detach this miracle of wealth 
from the figure of Agnes. They had come together. 
They belonged to each other, fantastic phenomena 
jerking him violently out of the deep rut of his 
existence. One day he went into the town and 


296 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

bought a gold locket, set with blue stones. He gave 
four pounds ten for it. He waited for Agnes that 
evening and gave it to her. He had been in an agony 
as to whether she would accept it, but to his delight 
she received it with gratitude and thanked him 
bewitchingly. This seemed to bind her to him 
indissolubly. A few evenings later he met her in the 
lane. There was no one about. Without a word he 
took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. She 
gasped and spluttered: 

“Oh, Mr. Fryatt, please . . . no.” 

But she wasn’t angry. Oh, no, not really angry— 
just provocative, more alluring than ever. . . . 

They met frequently after that, in secret disused 
corners of the brick-field, in the lanes at night. He 
bought her more presents, and one Saturday they 
went secretly to a fair at Molesham and only returned 
by the last train. The men naturally began to get 
wind of this illicit courtship, but as far as he knew 
no rumour had penetrated the deafness of Anne. 
He was drifting desperately beyond care in either 
respect. Two months of this intensive worship and 
the madness was upon him. He said: 

“You must come with me. We will run away.” 

“Where, Caleb?” 

“We’ll go to London.” 

“Where should we stay?” 

“At swell hotels. We will have a carriage. I will 
buy frocks and jewels.” 

The girl’s eyes narrowed. 


“FACE 


297 


“What about your wife?” 

“I’ll make it all right. I’ll settle some money on 
her.” 

But Agnes was not so easily won. Oh dear, no! 
There were tears and emotion. You see, she was 
only a young and innocent girl. Suppose he deserted 
her? What assurance had she? This scheming and 
plotting went on for weeks. At length they came to 
an agreement. Agnes would go to London with him 
if he would first settle a thousand pounds upon her. 
It was very cheap at the price, and a fair and reason¬ 
able bargain. One Saturday they journeyed to¬ 
gether to his lawyers at Blaizing-Killstoke. The 
deed was drawn up, and they both signed various 
papers. The elopement was fixed for the following 
Saturday. All the week Caleb walked like a man 
unconscious of his surroundings. The purposes of 
his life were to be fulfilled. True, he had odd mo¬ 
ments of misgiving. He dared not think about 
Anne. Also at times he had gloomy forebodings 
concerning London hotels, how to behave, whether 
the people would laugh at him, what clothes to wear, 
whether Agnes would quickly sicken of him. But 
still he had pledged himself. He jingled the money 
in his pocket. . . . His destiny. 

Friday was a disastrous day. It was cold and 
damp, and to his disgust he awoke with a severe 
twinge of rheumatism in his left shoulder. It made 
him irritable and nervous all day. Agnes was very 
preoccupied. He had advanced her some money to 


298 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

buy frocks, and she went backward and forward to 
her lodgings with large cardboard boxes. He had 
selected the morrow, because Anne was going away 
to spend a few days with her father. In the after¬ 
noon his rheumatism became worse, and he became 
aware of the symptoms of a feverish chill. He left 
off work at his usual time and cycled home. The 
cottage was all in darkness. He lighted the lamp. 
Anne had left his supper ready for him on the tray. 
The little room looked neat and tidy. She had also 
left a note for him. He picked it up carelessly and 
held it under the lamp. This is what he read: 

Caleb dear, I hear that you have made some money over to 
Agnes Fareham and that you are wishful to go away with her. 
My dear ! I do not want to interfere with your happiness. I 
thowt I had been a good wife to you but you know best. I am 
goin to my father and I shall not come back. Please God you 
may be happy. 

Your broking hearted wife, 

Anne. 

Bless you dear for all you have been to me and the happiness 
you have give me. 

And Caleb buried his face in his hands. Without 
touching his supper he carried the lamp into the bed¬ 
room and went to bed. Curse it! How his teeth 
were chattering! He would have liked a little 
brandy, but there was none in the cottage, and there 
was no one to go and fetch it. He wrapped himself 
up and rolled over, the interminable night began. 
What a weak fool he was! All the experiences and 


FACE 


299 

temptations of his life crowded upon him and tor¬ 
tured him. Idle dreams! Idle dreams! His shoulder 
ached insufferably. If Anne were here, she would 
rub it with that yellow oil. He could not rub his 
own shoulder and back. Then she would wrap it up 
in a thick shawl and say: 

“Silly Billy, you must be careful of the damp.” 

He could visualize her moving about the room, 
arranging the curtain so that there was no draught, 
stirring something in a cup, giving those little dex¬ 
terous pokes to the bed clothes which meant so much, 
sitting placidly by the window, his coarse woollen 
socks in her hand. She loved darning his socks . . . 
doing things for him, even all the unpleasant, ugly 
things of domestic life. 

He ought to have some soup or gruel or something, 
but he could not be bothered to make it. He turned 
out the lamp. And all night long Caleb turned and 
fretted, and strangely enough he gave little thought 
to Agnes. She was now becoming the unreality, the 
vain fancy, a feather drifting on the ocean. She 
was nothing to him. She had no part in that deep 
consciousness, amongst whose folds he had sought 
so desperately to find inner relief. What was it? 
Where was it? Toward dawn he slept fitfully, 
struggling to keep awake on account of the disturbing 
dreams that crowded upon him. When things at 
last became visible the first thing he was aware of 
was an old shawl of his wife’s on a nail by the door, 
and cap which she wore to do the housework in. The 


300 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

things became to him an emblem of the love she 
bore him, and truth came to him with the rising of 
the sun. Love—the deep secret her hand had sought; 
the love that struggles to endure through any con¬ 
ditions, the love that as far as human nature is con¬ 
cerned is permanent and indestructible. He ob¬ 
served its action upon his own career. His mother’s 
love for his father, a love which he had so tragically 
misinterpreted. Later his love for his country, which 
had crept upon him across the years and whispered 
to him across the endless waste of waters. And 
lastly the love that existed between his wife and 
himself, a love that was so near and familiar to him 
that he could not always see it. He sighed and the 
dreams no longer worried him. It must have been 
some hours later that he awoke and made himself 
some tea. He was still shaky, and his shoulder 
hurt, so he went back to bed. 

In the middle of the morning he heard the latch 
of the front door click, and his heart beat rapidly. 

“She has come back,” he thought. He heard 
some one moving in the passage, his door opened, and 
on the threshold of the room stood—Agnesi It was 
queer that on observing her his first thought was with 
regard to his teeth. During the war he had lost 
three front teeth. A loving government had pre¬ 
sented him with a plate and three false teeth which 
he always wore in daytime, but which at night, on 
Anne’s advice, he always kept in a glass of water by 
the side of the bed. He stretched out his hand for 


FACE 


the teeth, and then he felt that he would be ridiculous 
putting the plate in, so he left the matter alone. 
She advanced into the room, and neither of them 
spoke. It is difficult to know precisely what attitude 
Agnes had resolved to take, but the appearance and 
atmosphere of that room may have altered or modi¬ 
fied it. She merely grinned rather uncomfortably 
at Caleb. He could not have been an attractive 
sight. He had slept badly, and he had not washed 
or shaved. He was wearing a coarse woollen night¬ 
gown, and his three front teeth were missing. Per¬ 
haps it occurred to her abruptly that in the round of 
life one has to take the unshorn early morning with 
the gaily bedecked evening, and she was already 
wondering whether the combination was worth 
while. In any case she merely said: 

“Well?” 

And Caleb replied, “Hullo!” 

They both looked a little ashamed then, and 
Agnes glanced out of the window as though dreading 
some one’s approach. As he did not speak further, 
she turned and said: 

“You’re not coming then?” 

He turned his face to the wall and answered “No.” 

There was a definite expression of relief on the 
girl’s face. She was very smartly dressed in a tailor- 
made coat and skirt. She edged toward the door. 
Then she said in a mildly querulous voice: 

“I knew you’d back out of it.” 

Caleb sat up and exclaimed feelingly: 


302 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

“Fm sorry, Agnes.” 

This seemed to quite appease her, and she said: 

“Anything you want, Caleb, before I go?” 

The man stared thoughtfully at the ceiling before 
replying: 

“Yes; wait a minute, Agnes.” 

He took a pencil and a sheet of paper, and wrote 
out a telegram addressed to his wife: 

“Come back, dear, I want you.” 

The girl took up the telegram and read it through 
thoughtfully. Then she once more edged toward 
the door. She fumbled with the latch. Suddenly 
she turned and said: 

“That’ll be elevenpence.” 

“Eh?” 

“That’ll be elevenpence—for the telegram.” 

“Oh, ay, that’s it. Yes, elevenpence.” 

He fumbled with his trousers on the chair by the 
side of the bed and produced a shilling. 

“There, lass, I haven’t any change. Don’t 
bother about the penny.” 

She took the shilling and went back to the door. 

“Good-bye, Caleb.” 

“Good-bye.” 

When she had gone he thought it was rather queer 
of her to ask for the shilling. He had already given 
her a thousand pounds, and many frocks and presents. 
She might in any case have offered to give him the 
penny change. However, he soon forgot her in the 
fever of anxiety he was in as to the return of his wife. 


“FACE 


All day long no one came near the cottage. The 
day was wet, and a thick white mist drifted with the 
rain. He could not trouble to light the fire. He ate 
some bread and cheese at mid-day, and vainly tried 
to rub his shoulder with the oil. Soon after five it 
began to be dark again. He was in a terror of re¬ 
morse and fear. Had he destroyed the lamp of his 
happiness? He buried his face in the pillow and 
groaned: “I didn’t understand! I didn’t under¬ 
stand!” 

He began to feel so weak; he was losing sense of 
time. He awakened once with a start. The room 
seemed suddenly filled with an enveloping comfort. 
He held out his arms. He felt those wet cheeks 
pressed close to his. That voice so dear and familiar 
to him was whispering in his ear: 

“Silly Billy, I knew ye would send for me.” 


THE BROWN WALLET 


G ILES MEIKLEJOHN was a beaten man. 
Huddled in the corner of a third class railway 
carriage on the journey from Epsom to 
London, he sullenly reviewed the unfortunate series 
of episodes which had brought him into the position 
he found himself. Dogged by bad luck! . . . 

Thirty-seven years of age; married; a daughter ten 
years old; nothing attained; his debts exceeding his 
assets; and now—out of work! 

He had tried, too. A little pampered in his up¬ 
bringing; when the crisis came he had faced it man¬ 
fully. When, during his very first year at Oxford, 
the news came of his father’s bankruptcy and sudden 
death from heart failure, he immediately went up to 
town and sought a situation in any capacity. His 
mother had died many years previously, and his only 
sister was married to a missionary in Burmah. His 
accomplishments at that time? Well, he could play 
cricket and squash rackets; he knew a smattering of 
Latin and a smudge of French; he remembered a few 
dates in history, and he could add up and subtract (a 
little unreliably). He was good looking, genial, and 
of excellent physique. He had no illusions about the 
difficulties which faced him. 


304 


THE BROWN WALLET 


3°5 

His father had always been a kind of practical 
visionary. Connected with big insurance interests, 
he was a man of large horizons, profound knowledge, 
and great ideals. Around his sudden failure and 
death there had always clung an atmosphere of 
mystery. That he had never expected to fail, and 
was unprepared for death a week before it happened 
is certain. He had had plans for Giles which up to 
that time he had had no opportunity of putting into 
operation. The end must have been cyclonic. 

Through the intervention of friends, Giles obtained 
a situation as clerk in an insurance office, his wages 
amounting to fifteen shillings a week, a sum he had 
managed to live on. In the evening he attended 
classes, and studied shorthand and typewriting. 
At first the freshness of this experience, aided by 
youth and good health, stimulated him. But as 
time went on he began to realize that he had chosen 
work for which he was utterly unsuited. He worked 
hard but made no progress. He had not a mathe¬ 
matical mind; he was slow in the up-take. The 
chances of promotion were remote. The men around 
him seemed so quick and clever. At the end of two 
years he decided to resign and try something else. 
If only he had been taught a profession! After 
leaving the insurance office he went through various 
experiences; working at a seedsman’s nursery, going 
round with a circus, attempting to get on the stage 
and failing, working his passage out to South Africa, 
more clerking, nearly dying from enteric through 


306 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

drinking polluted water, working on an ostrich farm, 
returning to England as a male nurse to a young man 
who was mentally deficient. 

It was not till he met Minting that he achieved 
any success at all. They started a press-cutting 
agency in two rooms in Bloomsbury. Minting was 
clever, and Giles borrowed fifty pounds (from whom 
we will explain later). Strangely enough the press- 
cutting agency was a success. After the first six 
months they began to do well. 

It was at that time that he met Eleanor. She was 
secretary to Sir Herbert Woolley, the well-known 
actor-manager, and she happened to call one day 
concerning the matter of press-cuttings for her 
employer. From the very first moment there was 
never any question on either side but that both he 
and she had met their fate. Neither had there been 
an instant’s regret on either side ever since. They 
were completely devoted. With the business promi¬ 
sing well, he married her within three months. It is 
probable that if the business had not existed he would 
have done the same. They went to live in a tiny flat 
in Maida Vale, and a child was born the following year. 

A period of unclouded happiness followed. There 
was no fortune to be made out of press-cuttings, but 
a sufficient competence to keep Eleanor and the child 
in reasonable comfort. Everything progressed satis¬ 
factorily for three years. And then one July morn¬ 
ing the blow fell. At that time he and Minting were 
keeping a junior clerk. Giles and Eleanor had been 


THE BROWN WALLET 


3°7 

away to the sea for a fortnight’s holiday. Minting 
was to go on the day of their return. When Giles 
arrived at the office he found the clerk alone. To 
his surprise he heard that Minting had not been there 
himself for a fortnight. He did not have long to wait 
to find the solution of the mystery. The first hint 
came in the discovery of a blank counterfoil. Mint¬ 
ing had withdrawn every penny of their small 
capital and vanished! 

Giles did not tell his wife. He made a desperate 
effort to pull the concern together, but in vain. There 
were a great number of outstanding debts, and he 
had just nine shillings when he returned from his 
holiday. He rushed round and managed to borrow 
a pound or two here and there, sufficient to buy food 
and pay off the clerk, but he quickly foresaw that the 
crash was inevitable. He had not the business 
acumen of Minting, and no one seemed prepared to 
invest money in a bankrupt press-cutting agency. 
In the midst of his troubles the original source of the 
fifty pounds upon which he started the business, 
wrote peremptorily demanding the money back. 
He went there and begged and pleaded, but it was 
obvious that the “original source” looked upon him 
as a waster and ne’er-do-well. 

He went bankrupt, and Eleanor had to be told. 
She took it in just the way he knew she would take 
it. She said: 

“Never mind, darling. We’ll soon get on our feet 
again.” 


3 o8 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

She had been a competent secretary, with a knowl¬ 
edge of French, bookkeeping, shorthand and type¬ 
writing. She set to work and obtained a situation 
herself as secretary to the manager of a firm of wall¬ 
paper manufacturers, housing the child during the 
day with a friendly neighbour. 

Giles was idle the whole of August. They gave up 
the flat and went into lodgings. In September he got 
work as a clerk to a stationer. His salary was thirty 
shillings a week, a pound less than his wife was 
getting. He felt the situation bitterly. Poor Elea¬ 
nor! How he had let her down. When he spoke 
about it though she only laughed and said: 

“If our troubles are never anything worse than 
financial ones, darling, I shan’t mind.” 

They continued to be only financial ones till the 
following year when Eleanor became very ill. She 
gave birth to a child that died. In a desperate state 
Giles again approached the “original source.” After 
suffering considerable recrimination and bullying 
he managed to extract another ten pounds, which 
quickly vanished. It was three months before 
Eleanor was well enough to resume work, and during 
that time they lived in a state of penury. Giles 
lived almost entirely on tea and bread, and became 
very run down and thin. He pretended to Eleanor 
that he had had an increase, and that he had a good 
lunch every day, so that all the money he earned 
could be spent on her and the baby. In the mean¬ 
time he dissected desperately that grimmest of all 


THE BROWN WALLET 


309 

social propositions—the unskilled labour market. 
If only he had been taught to be a boot-maker, a 
plumber, or a house-painter he would have been 
better off. Manners may make men, but they don’t 
make money, and one has to make money to live. 
He became envious of his fellow clerks and shop 
assistants who had never tasted the luxurious diet 
of a public school training. That he had brains he 
was fully aware, but they had never been trained in 
any special direction. They were, moreover, the 
kind of brains that do not adapt themselves to com¬ 
mercial ends. He had always had a great affection 
for his father, but he began to nurture a resentment 
against his memory. His father had treated him 
badly, bringing him up to a life of ease and assurance 
and then deserting him. 

It would be idle and not very interesting to trace 
the record of his experiences during the next years 
up to the time when we find him in the train on the 
way back from Epsom. It is a dreary story, the 
record of a series of dull underpaid jobs, a few bright 
gleams of hope, even days and nights of complete 
happiness, then dull reactions, strain, worry, hunger, 
nervous fears, blunted ambitions, and thwarted 
desires. Through it all the only thing that remained 
unalterably bright and inspiring, was his wife’s face. 
Not once did she flinch, not once did she lose hope. 
Her constant slogan: “Never mind, old darling, 
we’ll soon be on our feet again,” was ever in his 
ears, buoying him up through the darkest hours. 


3 io MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

And again he was out of work, again Eleanor was 
not well, and again he had been to the “original 
source.” 

The “original source” was his uncle, his father’s 
brother. He was a thin, acid old gentleman, known 
in commercial circles as a money-maniac. Living 
alone in a large house at Epsom, with all kinds of 
telephonic connections with the city, he thought and 
dreamed of nothing at all but his mistress—money. 
Between him and Giles’ father had always existed a 
venomous hatred, far more pronounced on the side 
of his uncle than of his father. It had dated back 
many years. When his father died and Giles ap¬ 
pealed to his uncle, the old gentleman appeared 
thoroughly to enjoy giving him five pounds as an 
excuse for a lecture and a subtly conveyed sneer 
at his father’s character. 

He was a very wealthy man, and he could easily 
have launched Giles into the world by putting him 
through the training for one of the professions, but he 
preferred to dole out niggardy litte bits of charity 
and advice, and to boast that he himself was a self- 
made man,who had had no special training. 

“No,” thought Giles, “but you have an instinct 
for making money. I haven’t. You don’t have to 
train a duck to swim.” 

Naturally, they very quickly quarrelled, and his 
uncle seemed to rejoice in his failures. It was only 
in his most desperate positions that he appealed to 
him again. 


THE BROWN WALLET 


3ii 

Lying back in the dimly lighted railway carriage 
he kept on visualizing his uncle’s keen malevolent 
eyes, the thrust of the pointed chin. The acid tones 
of his voice echoed through his brain: 

“It’s quite time, my lad, you pulled yourself 
together. You ought to have made your fortune by 
now. Don’t imagine I’m always going to help 
you.” 

Giles had humbled his pride for his wife and child’s 
sake. He had spent the night at his uncle’s, and by 
exercising his utmost powers of cajolery, had man¬ 
aged to extort three pounds. Three pounds! and the 
rent overdue, bills pressing, his wife unwell and he— 
out of work. What was he going to do ? 

The train rumbled into Waterloo Station without 
any satisfactory answer being arrived at. He pulled 
his bag out from under the seat, and stepped slowly 
out of the carriage. 

Walking along the platform it suddenly occurred 
to him that he was feeling weak and exhausted. “I 
hope to God I’m not going to be ill,” he thought. 

The bag, which only contained his night things 
and a change of clothes, seemed unbearably heavy. 
A slight feeling of faintness came over him as he 
passed the ticket-collector. 

“I believe I shall have to have a cab,” flashed 
through him. 

Two important-looking men got out of a taxi 
which had just driven up. Giles engaged it, and 
having given his address he stepped in and sank back 


312 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

exhausted on to the seat. It was very dark in the 
cab, and he lay huddled in the corner—a beaten man. 
Everything appeared distant and dim, and un¬ 
important. He had hardly eaten any lunch, and his 
uncle seemed to have arranged that he should leave 
his house just before dinner. It was late, and he was 
hungry and over-wrought. 

The cab turned a corner sharply, and Giles lurched 
and thrust his hand on to the other end of the seat to 
prevent himself falling. As he did so his knuckles 
brushed against an object. Quite apathetically he 
felt to see what it was. He picked it up and held it 
near the window. It was a brown leather wallet, 
with a circular brass lock. He regarded it dubiously, 
and for an instant hesitated whether he should tell 
the driver to go back to the station, the wallet 
presumably belonging to one of those two important¬ 
looking men who had got out. But would it be 
possible to find them? By that time they would 
probably have gone off by train. No, the right thing 
to do was to give it up to the police, of course. 

It was a fat wallet, and he sat there with it in his 
hand ruminating. He wondered what it contained. 
Quite easy just to have a squint anyway. He tried to 
slip the catch but it wouldn’t open. It was locked. 
It is difficult to determine the extent to which this 
knowledge affected him. If it had not been locked 
Giles Meiklejohn’s immediate actions, and indeed 
his future career might have been entirely different. 
It irritated him that the wallet was locked . . . 


THE BROWN WALLET 


313 

tantalized him. If it was locked it meant that it 
contained something . . . pretty useful. All 

round the park he lay back in the cab hugging the 
wallet like one in a trance. 

A desperate, beaten man, holding a fat wallet in his 
hand. Contrary forces were struggling within his 
tired mind. Going up Park Lane one of these forces 
seemed to succumb to the other. Almost in a dream 
he leant out of the cab, and said quietly to the driver: 

“Drive to the Trocadero. I think I'll get a bit 
of supper first.” 

Arriving there, he paid the cabman, concealed the 
wallet in his overcoat and went in. He entered a 
lavatory and locked himself in. With unruffled 
deliberation he took out a penknife and began to 
saw away at the leather around the lock. 

“I just want to have a squint,” he kept on men¬ 
tally repeating. 

It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to get the 
wallet open, and when he did his heart was beating 
like a sledge hammer. 

The wallet contained eight thick packets of one 
pound treasury notes! He feverishly computed the 
number which each packet contained, and decided 
that it must be two hundred and fifty. In other 
words, he had two thousand pounds’ worth of ready 
cash in his possession! 

A desperate, beaten man, with a wife and child, 
hungry . . . out of work . . . two thou¬ 
sand pounds! . . . 


314 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

There seemed no question about it all then. One 
side of the scale was too heavily weighted. He took 
seventeen of the one pound notes and put them in his 
pocket book, the rest he divided into the pockets of 
his overcoat, where he also concealed the wallet. He 
went up into the bar and ordered a double brandy 
and soda. He drank it in two gulps and went out 
and hailed another taxi. On the way home he 
stopped at a caterer’s, and bought a cold fowl, some 
pressed beef, new rolls, cheese, a box of chocolates, 
and a bottle of wine. Then he drove homeward. 

Up to this point his actions seemed to have been 
controlled by some sub-conscious force. So far as 
his normal self was concerned, he had hardly thought 
at all. But as he began to approach his own neigh¬ 
bourhood—his own wife—the realization of what he 
had done—what he was doing—came home to 
him. . . . 

“It was practically stealing. It is stealing, you 
know.” 

Yes, but what would any one else have done in 
that position? He couldn’t let his wife and child 
starve. There was only one thing he was afraid 
of . . . his wife’s eyes. She must never know. 

He would have to be cunning, circumspect. He must 
get rid of the wallet, conceal the notes from his 
wife—eke them out in driblets, pretend he was 
making money somehow. But the wallet? He 
couldn’t leave it in the cab. It would be found and 
the cabman would give evidence. He mustn’t drive 


THE BROWN WALLET 315 

home at all. He must get out again, think again. 
Between Paddington and Maida Vale runs a canal. 
Happy thought! a canal! he stopped at the bridge 
and dismissed the man again, tipping him lavishly. 
The banks of the canal were railed off. It was only 
possible to get near enough to throw anything in 
from the bridge. Thither he walked at a rapid 
stride. The feeling of exhaustion had passed. He 
was tingling with excitement. He looked eagerly 
about for a stone, and cursed these modern arrange¬ 
ments of wooden pavements. There were no stones 
near the canal. Never mind, the thing would prob¬ 
ably sink. If it didn’t, who could trace its discovery 
to his action ? The point was to get rid of it unseen. 

He reached the bridge. A few stray people were 
passing backward and forward—must wait till every¬ 
one was out of sight. He hung about, gripping his 
portmanteau in one hand, and the wallet in his right 
hand overcoat pocket. He crossed the bridge once, 
but still seeing dark figures about he had to return. 
Why not throw it now? No, there was someone 
watching in the road opposite—might be a police¬ 
man! The police! never had cause to feel frightened 
at the police before. There would be a splash. 
Someone might come out of the darkness, a deep 
voice: 

“What was that you threw in the canal?” 

No, no, couldn’t do it. The bridge was too ex¬ 
posed, too much of a fairway. He hurried off walk¬ 
ing rapidly down side streets in the direction of his 


316 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

home. At last an opportunity presented itself. 
Shabby, deserted little street, a low stone wall en¬ 
closing a meagre garden. Not a soul in sight. Like 
a flash he slipped the wallet over the wall and dropped 
it. Instantaneously he looked up at the house con¬ 
nected with the garden. A man was looking out of 
the first floor window, watching him! 

He turned and walked quickly back. He thought 
he heard a call. At the first turning he ran, the 
portmanteau banging against his leg and impeding 
his progress. He only ceased running because 
people stopped and looked at him suspiciously. 

“It’s all right! It’s all right!” he kept saying to 
himself. “I’ve got rid of it.” 

Yes, he was rid of that danger, but there loomed 
before him the more insidious difficulty of concealing 
the notes. His pockets bulged with them. When 
he arrived home, Eleanor would run out into the 
landing and throw her arms round him. He could al¬ 
most hear the tones of her gentle voice saying: 

“Whatever have you got in your pockets, dar¬ 
ling?” 

If he put them in the portmanteau she would be 
almost certain to open it, or she would be in the room 
when he went to unpack. Very difficult to conceal 
anything from Eleanor; she knew all about him; 
every little thing about him interested her. Noth¬ 
ing in their rooms was locked up. Moreover, she was 
very observant, methodical and practical. Someone 
had called her psychic, but this was only because she 


THE BROWN WALLET 


317 

thought more quickly than most people, and had 
unerring intuitions. 

Giles would have to be very cunning. His mental 
energies were so concerned with the necessity for 
deceiving Eleanor that the moral aspect of his 
position was temporarily blurred. He plunged on 
through the darkness, his mind working rapidly. 
At the corner of their meagre street he was tempted 
to stuff the notes in a pillar box and hurry home. 

“Don’t be a fool,” said the other voice. “Here is 
comfort and luxury interminably—not only for your¬ 
self, for the others.” 

He went boldly up to the house and let himself in. 
He heard other lodgers talking in the front ground 
floor room. He hurried by and reached his own 
landing. To his relief Eleanor’s voice came from the 
room above: 

“Is that you, darling?” 

He dumped the bag down and in a flash had re¬ 
moved his overcoat and hung it on a peg in a dark 
corner. Then he called out: 

“Hullo, old girl. Everything all right?” 

Within a minute his wife’s arms were around him, 
and he exclaimed with forced triumph: 

“I touched the old boy for twenty pounds! I’ve 
brought home a chicken and things.” 

“Oh! how splendid! A chicken! Rather extrav. 
isn’t it, darling?” 

“One must live, dear angel.” 

Her confidence and trust in him, her almost child- 


318 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

ish glee over the gay feast, her solicitude in his wel¬ 
fare, her anxiety that little Anna should have some 
chicken, but keep the sweets till the morrow, her 
voice later crooning over the child—all these things 
mocked his conscience. But he couldn’t afford to 
have a conscience. He couldn’t afford to say: 

“I stole all this and more.” 

He was eager for the attainment of that last 
instance—crooning over the child. Whilst he was 
putting the little girl to bed, he crept but into the 
passage and extracted the packets of notes from his 
overcoat pocket. He took them into the sitting 
room and wrapped them up in brown paper. He 
wrote on the outside, “stationery.” Then he stuffed 
the parcel at the back of a cupboard where they kept 
all kinds of odds and ends. 

“That’ll have to do for to-night,” he thought. 
“I’m too tired to think of anything better.” 

When she came down he enlarged the claims of his 
exhaustion. He had a bit of a head he explained, 
just as well to turn in early. In the darkness he 
clung to her fearfully, like a child in terror of sepa¬ 
ration. 

It was not till she was sleeping peacefully that the 
enormity of his offence came home to him. 

If he were found out! It would kill her. 

He remembered her expression: 

“If our troubles are never anything worse than 
financial ones, darling, I shan’t mind.” 

Good God! What had he done ? He could call it 


THE BROWN WALLET 319 

what he liked, but crudely speaking it was just 
stealing. He had stolen. He was a criminal, a 
felon. If found out, it meant arrest, trial, imprison¬ 
ment—all these horrors he had only vaguely en¬ 
visaged as concerning a different type of person to 
himself. In the rough and tumble of his life he had 
never before done anything criminal, never anything 
even remotely dishonest. And she, Eleanor, what 
would she think of him ? It would destroy her love, 
destroy her life, ruin the child. 

He must get up, go into the other room and— 
what? What could he do with the notes? Burn 
them? Eleanor had that mother’s curious faculty 
for profound, but at the same time, watchful sleep. 
If he got out of bed she would be aware of it. If he 
went into the next room and began burning things, 
she would be instantly alert. 

“What’s that burning, darling?” 

An ever-loving wife may be an embarrassment 
when one is not quite playing the game. By destroy¬ 
ing the wallet he had burnt his boats. If he returned 
the money he would have to explain what the wallet 
was doing in a neighbour’s garden with the brass 
lock cut away. 

“ Besides, you’ve already spent some,” interjected 
that other voice. “You’re horribly in debt. Here’s 
succour. The money probably belongs to some rich 
corporation. It’s not like taking it from the poor. 
Don’t be a fool. Go to sleep.” 

For hours he tossed feverishly, the pendulum of 


320 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

his resolutions swinging backward and forward. 
If he was to keep the money, he would have to invent 
some imaginary source of income, a fictitious job, 
perhaps, and that would be very difficult because 
Eleanor was so solicitous, such a glutton for details 
concerning himself. He might have made out that 
his uncle had given him a much larger sum of money, 
but in that case there was the danger that in her im¬ 
petuous manner Eleanor might have written to the 
old man, and the old man would smell a rat. Doubt¬ 
less the affair of the lost wallet would be in the papers 
the next day, and wouldn’t the old man be delighted 
to bring it home to Giles! 

There was nothing to be done but to trust to fate. 
The milk carts were clattering in the road before he 
slept. 

It was hours later that he heard Anna’s merry little 
laugh, and his wife’s voice saying: 

“Hush, darling, daddy’s asleep. He’s very tired.” 

He got up and faced the ordeals of the day. The 
place at the back of the lumber cupboard seemed the 
most exposed in the world. He racked his brains for 
a more suitable spot. But whichever place he 
thought of danger seemed to lurk. One never quite 
knew what Eleanor might do. She was so keen on 
tidying up and clearing things out. He decided that 
a crisp walk might clear his mind. He made up the 
excuse that he was going to the public library to look 
through the advertisements and went out. He 
meant to smuggle the parcel of notes out with him. 


THE BROWN WALLET 


321 

but Eleanor was too much on the spot. She helped 
him on with his overcoat and said: 

“It’ll soon be all right again, darling.” 

Poor Eleanor! What a capacity she had for living! 
She ought to have married a rich, successful, and 
clever man. She ought to have everything a beauti¬ 
ful woman desires. Well? . . . He walked 

quickly to the nearest news-agent and bought a 
paper. There was nothing in the morning paper 
about the loss of the wallet. He felt annoyed about 
this, until he realized that of course there wouldn’t 
have been time. It would come out later. And 
indeed whilst standing on the curb anxiously scruti¬ 
nizing his morning paper, boys came along the street 
selling the Star and the Evening News. 

A paragraph in the Star , headed “£2,000 left in a 
taxi,” supplied him with the information he needed. 
It announced that Sir James Cusping, K.B.E., a 
director of a well-known bank and a chief cashier, 
left a wallet containing two thousand pounds in 
treasury notes in a taxi at Waterloo Station. The 
money was the result of a cash transaction concerning 
certain bank investments. Any one giving infor¬ 
mation likely to lead to recovery would be suitably 
rewarded. It also announced that Scotland Yard 
had the matter in hand. 

So far the information was satisfactory. Sir 
James Cusping was a notoriously wealthy man, and 
the chief cashier was hardly likely to be held seriously 
responsible for a loss for which such an important 


322 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

person was jointly responsible. The bank mentioned 
was a bank that advertised that its available assets 
exceeded four hundred million pounds. Two thou¬ 
sand pounds meant less to it than two pence would 
mean to Giles. No one was hurt by the transfer of 
this useful sum to his own pocket. The sun was 
shining. Why be down in the mouth about it? 
What he had done he had done, and he must see it 
through. 

How could anybody trace the theft to him? The 
two cabmen? They would be hardly likely to re¬ 
member his face, and neither of them had driven 
him home. There was no danger from any one ex¬ 
cept Eleanor. A sudden fever of dread came over 
him. She would assuredly turn out that cupboard to¬ 
day, find the packet of “stationery.” Then—what? 

He hurried back home. Approaching the house 
other fears assailed him. He had visions of police¬ 
men waiting for him on the other side of the hall door. 

Damn it! His nerves were going to pot. He 
opened the door with exaggerated nonchalance. 
There was no one there. No one up in his rooms 
except his wife and child. Eleanor was singing. 
The kettle was on the gas ring, ready for tea. 

“What a cad I am to her,” he thought. 

The condition of frenzied agitation continued till 
the following afternoon when it reached a crisis. 
He was feeling all unstrung. Seated alone in their 
little sitting room he was struggling with the reso¬ 
lution to confess everything to Eleanor, when she 


THE BROWN WALLET 


323 

entered the room. He glanced at her and nearly 
screamed. She was holding up the parcel in her hand ! 
In her cheerful voice she said: 

“What is this parcel marked stationery, darling? 
I was turning out the cupboard.” 

Like an animal driven to bay he jumped up and 
almost snatched it from her. The inspiration of 
despair prompted him to exclaim: 

“Oh! . . . that! Yes, yes, I wanted that. 

It’s something a chap wanted me to get for him . . . 
It doesn’t belong to me.” 

A chap! What chap? Giles didn’t usually refer 
to chaps. They had no secrets apart. She looked 
surprised. 

“I was just going to open it. As a matter of fact 
we have run out of stationery.” 

“Eh? No, no, not that. I must send that back. 
I’ll get some more stationery.” 

He tucked the packet under his arm and went out 
into the hall. 

“You’re not going out at once?” said Eleanor, 
following. 

“Yes, yes, I must post it at once. I’d quite for¬ 
gotten.” 

He slipped on his coat and went out without his 
customary embrace. 

Beads of perspiration were on his brow. 

“That’s done it!” he muttered in the street, “I 
must never take it back.’* 

An extravagant plan formed in his mind. He 


324 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

went to the library and looked at the advertisements 
in a local paper. He took down some addresses in 
St. John’s Wood. In half an hour’s time he was 
calling on a landlady in a mean street. 

“You have a furnished room to let?” he said when 
she appeared. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, it’s like this. I am an author. I want a 
quiet room to work in during the day time.” 

“I’ve got a nice room as would suit you.” 

“Come on, then, let me see it, please.” 

He booked the room, a shabby little over-crowded 
apartment. 

“I’ll be coming in to-day,” he said. 

“Very good, sir. What name might it be?” 

“Er—name? Oh, yes, name—er—John Parsons.” 

He fled down the street and sought a furnishing 
establishment. 

“I want an oak desk which I can lock up—a good 
strong lock.” 

He paid seven pounds ten for the desk, and got it 
taken round at once on a barrow. He then bought 
scribbling papers, paper, and ink. He established 
himself in his room, stuffed the packet of notes in the 
desk and locked it. Then he went out into the street 
again. The fresh air fanned his temples. He almost 
chuckled. 

“By God! Why didn’t I think of this at first?” 
he reflected. “After the life I’ve led one forgets the 
power of money.” 


THE BROWN WALLET 


325 

He felt singularly calm and confident. It was dark 
when he got home. He kissed Eleanor and made up 
an elaborate story about a fellow clerk named Lyel 
Bristowe, who used to work in the same office, and 
whom he had met in the street recently. He had 
wanted this particular stationery most particularly. 
He had been to see him, and Bristowe was giving 
him an introduction to a man who might be able to 
offer him a good situation. The story went down 
reasonably well, but he thought he detected a pucker 
of suspicion about his wife’s brow. 

He was too involved now to turn back. The 
following day he visited his furnished room. He 
anxiously unlocked the desk, took out the notes, 
examined them, put them back, took them out again, 
stuffed them in his pocket. . . . Very dangerous 

after all leaving them there, a flimsy lock . . . 

there might be a burglary. He had told the landlady 
that he was an author, and it is true that he spent a 
great portion of the day inventing fiction . . . 

lies to tell Eleanor. He eventually locked the notes 
up again and went home. 

He assumed a somewhat forced air of triumph. 
He had been successful. Through the influence of 
Bristowe, he had secured a position as chief cashier 
to a firm of surgical instrument makers in Camden 
Town. His salary was to be five pounds a week to 
commence. Eleanor clapped her hands. 

“Oh, but how lovely, darling! I suppose you can 
do it? You’re such an old silly at figures!” 


326 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

He explained that the work was quite simple, 
and added ironically that the great thing Messrs. 
Binns and Binns wanted was a man they could trust. 

Then the narrow life of lies proceeded apace. 
Every day he went to his room, fingered the notes, 
took some when he needed them, deliberately in¬ 
vented the names and characters of his fellow 
workers at Messrs. Binns and Binns, even made up 
little incidents and stories concerning his daily 
experiences. The whole affair was so inordinately 
successful. No further reference was made in the 
newspapers to the. missing wallet, and though Scot¬ 
land Yard were supposed to have the matter in hand, 
what could they do? Even if by chance suspicion 
fell on him, there was nothing incriminating to be 
found in his lodgings, and not a soul knew the where¬ 
abouts of “John Parsons.” His wife and child were 
living comfortably. He was gradually paying off his 
debts. 

But if the purely material side of his adventure 
was successful, the same cannot be said of the 
spiritual. He was tortured beyond endurance. Lies 
bred lies. The moral lapse bred other moral lapses. 
He was conscous of his own moral degeneration. 
He was ashamed to look his wife in the face. In 
the evening when he intended to be gay and cheerful 
he sat morosely in the corner, wishing that the night 
would come—and go. In the day time he would 
sit in his room, fretful and desolate. In a mood of 
despair he began to set down his experiences in terms 


THE BROWN WALLET 


327 

of fiction, ascribing his feelings to an imaginary 
person. Sometimes when the position became un¬ 
bearable he would go out and drink. Often he would 
go up to the West End and lunch extravagantly at 
some obscure restaurant. He came into touch with 
unsavoury people of the underworld. 

The marks of his deterioration quickly became 
apparent to bis wife. One morning she said: 

“Darling, you’re working too hard at that place. 
You look rotten. Last night when you came home 
you smelt of brandy.” 

Then she wept a little, a thing she had never done 
in their days of adversity. He promised not to do 
such a thing again. He swore that the work was not 
hard; the firm were very pleased with him and were 
going to give him a raise. 

The weeks and months went by and he struggled to 
keep straight. But little by little he felt himself 
slipping back. He managed to write a few things 
which he sent off* to publishers, but for the most part 
he avoided his room for any length of time, and sat 
about in obscure cafes in Soho, drinking and playing 
cards. 

Between himself and his wife the great chasm 
seemed to be yawning. She was to him the dearest 
treasure in the world,and he was thrusting her away. 
In that one weak moment he had destroyed all 
chance of happiness—hers and his. Too late! Too 
late! In six months’ time he found that he had spent 
nearly five hundred pounds! At this rate in another 


328 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

eighteen months it would all be gone, and then— 
what? His moral character destroyed, his wife 
broken in health, the child without protection or 
prospects. 

One morning he observed his wife glancing in the 
niirror as she did her hair. It came home to him 
abruptly that she had aged, aged many years in the 
last six months. Soon she would be turning gray, 
middle-aged, old-aged. And he? . His hair was thin 
on top, his face flabby, his organisms becoming in¬ 
efficient and weak, his nerves eternally on edge. 
Sometimes he was rude and snappy to her. And he 
buried his face in the pillow and thought: 

“Oh, my darling, what have I done? What have 
I done?” 

That day he concentrated on a great resolve. 
This thing would have to stop. He would rather be 
a starving clerk again, rather a bricklayer’s navvy, 
a crossing-sweeper, anything. He wandered the 
streets, hugging his determination. He avoided his 
old haunts. There must be no compromise. The 
thing should be cut clean out. He would confess. 
They would send back the remainder of the money 
anonymously, and start all over again. It was hard, 
but anything was better than this torture. 

He returned home early in the afternoon, his face 
pale and tense. His wife was on the landing. She 
said: 

“Oh, I was just going to send a telegram on to you. 
It’s from your uncle. He says come at once.” 


THE BROWN WALLET 


329 

A queer little stab of the old instinct of conspiracy 
went through him. If she had sent the telegram on, 
it would have come back: “No such firm known at 
this address.” 

What did his uncle want? Come at once? Should 
he go, or should he make his confession first? 

“I think you ought to go, darling. It sounds 
important.” 

Very well, then. The confession should be post¬ 
poned till his return. 

He caught a train at a quarter to four, and arrived 
at his uncle’s house in daylight. An old housekeeper 
let him in and said: 

“Ah! Your uncle’s been asking for you. The 
doctor’s here ” 

“Is he ill?” 

“They say he hasn’t long to live. The poor man is 
in great agony.” 

He was kept waiting ten minutes. A doctor came 
out to him, looking very solemn. 

“I’ve just given him an injection of strychnine. 
He wishes to see you alone.” 

His uncle was propped up against the pillows. 
His face unrecognizable except for the eyes, which 
were unnaturally bright. Giles went close up to him, 
and took his hand. The old man’s voice was only 
just audible. He whispered: 

“Quickly! quickly! I shall be going-” 

“What is it, uncle?” 

“It mustn’t come out, see? musn’t get into the 



330 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

newspapers, nothing, the disgrace, see? That’s 
why ... no cheques must pass; all cash trans¬ 
action, see?” 

“What do you want me to do?” 

“On that bureau ... a brown paper par¬ 
cel .. . it’s yours, all in bonds and cash, see? 

Twenty-eight thousand pounds ... it really 
belongs to your father ... I can’t explain 
. . . I’m going. He—I swindled him . . . 
he thought he was ... its all through me he 
. . . . bankrupt, death, see?” 

“Do you mean my father . . . killed him¬ 

self?” 

“Not exactly, see? Hastened his end . . 

thought he would get into trouble. Take it, Giles, 
for God’s sake! Let me die in peace.” 

“Why did you? Why did you?” 

“I loved your mother. . . . Take it, Giles, for 

God’s sake. Oh, this pain! . . . it’s coming 

. . . God help me! 

It was very late when Giles arrived home. His 
wife was asleep in bed. All the way home he had 
been repeating to himself in a dazed way: 

“Twenty-eight thousand pounds. No, twenty- 
six thousand. Two thousand to be sent back 
anonymously to the bank. No need for confession. 
Twenty-six thousand pounds. Eleanor, Anna. Oh, 
my dears!” 

On the table in the sitting-room was a letter from a 
firm of publishers, addressed to Mr. John Parsons. 


THE BROWN WALLET 331 

It stated that the firm considered the short novel 
submitted to be a work of striking promise, and the 
manager would be glad if Mr. Parsons would call on 
them. 

“Perhaps I’ve found out what I can do,” Giles 
meditated. 

Eleanor came into the room in her dressing-gown 
and embraced him. 

“All right, darling?” 

“Very much. Uncle has given me twenty-eight— 
I mean twenty-six thousand pounds. He said he 
cheated my father out of it.” 

“Darling! Cheated! How awful.” 

No, there was no need for confession. The sudden 
wild change in their fortunes got into his blood. 
He gripped her round the waist and lifted her up. 

“Think of it, old girl, money to live on for ever. A 
place in the country, eh? You know, your dream: a 
bit of land and an old house, flowers, chickens, dogs, 
books, a pony perhaps. What about it?” 

“Oh, Giles, I can’t realize it. But how splendid, 
too, about the publishers’ letter. Why didn’t you 
tell me you were writing? Why do you call yourself 
John Parsons?” 

No need for confession, no, no, let’s go to bed. 
But oh! to get back to the old intimacy. . . . 

And so in the silent night he told her everything. 

And the tears she shed upon his burning cheeks 
gave him the only balm of peace he had enjoyed since 
the hour he had destroyed the wallet. 


332 MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS 

It was Eleanor’s hand which printed in Roman 
lettering on the outside of a parcel the address of Sir 
James Cusping, K.B.E. Inside were two thousand 
pounds in treasury notes, and on a slip of paper in the 
same handwriting: “Conscience money . Found in a 
taxi.” 


THE END 







































































































































































































































































































































